


When The Party's Over

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs in a Car, Casual Sex, Come Shot, Condoms, Depression, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Musicians, Oral Sex, Pining, Police, Possibly Unrequited Love, Prostitution, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Jaskier is the lead singer of a small indie band called 'My Heart, Your Blood'. Playing in a shitty dive bar one night, he meets Geralt. The two begin a casual relationship, but Jaskier wants more, and Geralt is reluctant. An AU Witcher fic that will feature a part two from Geralt's POV. Inspired by the lyrics from Billie Eilish's song, 'When The Party's Over' (which are bold/italic).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 136
Kudos: 347
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. The Musician

_**Don't y'know I'm no good for you?**_

_**I've learned to lose, you can't afford to...** _

Jaskier hated waking up to the sound of his front door latch closing.

No matter how carefully Geralt slid from the bed, gathered his things, and crept out – and God damn, that man could be as quiet as a ghost's fart, despite his size – Jaskier almost always awoke when the deadbolt clicked into place. It sounded to him like the fracture of a glass pane, or a desperate trigger pulled on an empty gun.

It sounded like the goodbye that Geralt never told him.

By now, it was unspoken that they'd see each other again. Maybe in a few days, maybe in a few weeks. Inevitably his phone would buzz, and he'd thumb the cracked screen alive to see the message. Geralt was still saved in his contact list as ' _Hot Bar Dude_ '.

 _Busy?_ The text would often read. He was a man of few words.

 _Nah. Ten mins?_ Jaskier would flick back, despite his schedule, and a lack of reply would mean an acceptance.

\----------------

He'd first met the other man in a dive that he couldn't remember the name of now. Some absolute shit-hole, the kind of place where your boots stick to the wooden floor near the bar, and the urinal still has a machine that sells singular condoms well-past their expiry date. Where posters advertising cheap beer cover up dents in the plaster from brawls. The sort of joint where Jaskier and his band would play in exchange for fifty bucks and a very limited bar tab.

 _My Heart, Your Blood_ consisted of three members: Jaskier played electric guitar and sung lead vocals. His only remaining friend from high school, Eskel, played the drums. Eskel's friend and occasional bane of Jaskier's existence, Lambert, played bass guitar and synth. Their style was best described as punk chaos, with a twist of melancholy romance. This was mostly due to Jaskier's incredible ability to switch from roaring lyrics in a bestial thunder, to the sweet sweep of a melodic tune – sometimes in the same breath. Eskel always told him that he was too good to be wasting his time with their small-time unsigned band, but Jaskier was an optimist. _My Heart, Your Blood_ was his baby, a pet project he'd begun after he fell out of the education system, and he knew they'd get interest someday.

Until then he was content with their tiny flock of dedicated fans, playing the city's numerous dives on a circuit to scrape together enough cash for rent, booze, and – occasionally – food that didn't come freeze-dried in a small cardboard box.

The night he'd met Geralt, he'd been particularly frustrated and worse, relatively sober. He threw himself into the howl of his lyrics, riding the bass that Lambert strummed for him with a crescendo of vocal theatrics. It didn't matter that there were less than a dozen people in the joint. Didn't matter that Eskel was hungover and occasionally missing the snare. He wanted to feel alive, and the music afforded him that temporary thrill. So he sung until his lungs burned, until the guy behind the bar called for last round, until there was nothing left but a couple of drunks and a glass of water for him to chug. Fuck, he wished he had enough for a beer.

Usually he'd help Eskel take his kit apart, but that night he'd hopped off the stage, drawn inexplicably to a figure stooped over the bar. He fended a fan off as politely as possible, thanking her for coming and whispering in her ear that she'd have her pick of Eskel or Lambert if she showed even the vaguest amount of interest, and strode over to the burly bloke. He was intent on making the most of the dregs of his whiskey, it seemed.

He was also ridiculously, _impossibly_ gorgeous.

Thick with muscle that strained at the material of his cotton tee', he boasted the sort of sharp, leonine features that deserved to be on the cover of an editorial magazine. The scrape of stubble kissed his harsh jawline, and he had long hair that he'd twisted atop his head in a messy bun, secured with a frayed elastic band. The colour was a marriage between snow and moonlight, something that could have signified age, but Jaskier suspected it was a genetic blessing. He was older than the musician, sure, but not geriatric.

He had the most unusual eyes; Jaskier couldn't decide if they were pale green or almost yellow in the obnoxious florescence of the lights above the bar. He was sure, however, that they were narrowed in a suspicious question at his approach. So Jaskier employed his most charming smile and leaned against the pock-marked wood of the bartop, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

Punching above his weight? Maybe a little. But fuck it.

“Y'liked the show?” He asked, allowing the northern English accent he still carried to thread through his words a bit more than usual. Some men found it charming. “Saw you didn't applaud. Did you come to break my heart?”

“Your song,” The Adonis of a man had a voice to match his looks, all smoke-and-neat liquor, and Jaskier felt his cock twitch in his jeans, “The one about the girl and the bathtub.”

“ _Goodbye Doe_ , yeah. What about it?” Jaskier's tone turned a little defensive.

“Arterial blood doesn't work that way.” The large man took another regretful sip of his drink. It was almost gone.

“Oh, yeah?” Jaskier crossed his arms, “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Nope.” The man didn't offer anything further. He swirled the dregs of his whisky. Jaskier should have been deterred, but he pressed.

“Watched a lot of Dexter, then.” He guessed, “Did you find the ending really funny too? Like, after _all_ that--”

“That show was ridiculous, and anyone who considered it even remotely factual is an idiot.” The stranger didn't look at him again.

“Oo-okay,” Jaskier hummed, hefting his weight a little harder onto the bar to give his feet a break. He'd been standing for hours. “So, what, then. Anatomy professor? Y'look like a scholarly type, actually. Could see you with those round glasses, scowling at a class of undergrads. Oh, oh, no – special effects makeup artist. _Please_ tell me you are, 'cause I've always wanted--”

“You talk too much.” The man actually growled, and damn it if that didn't just spur Jaskier on further.

“Yeah, been told that.” The musician grinned, and then pinched a napkin from behind the bar so he'd have something to do with his hands. Always fidgeting. “So how does arterial blood 'work', then?”

The silvery-haired man paused, threw back the rest of his drink, and sighed. “Doesn't matter.” He muttered.

Something clicked inside Jaskier's brain. “Ohhhh. Oh, you're-- you're a _cop_.” The way the other man shot him a side-long glance confirmed his hypothesis, and he returned the stare with a pearly grin. “Yeah, yeah, I see it now. Drinking alone in this shit bar because it's not near your beat, right? You can escape here, get away from the job. Funny that you'd choose such a dive, though. These sort of places just attract trouble.”

“I'm getting that idea.” His mystery man groused. And then he began to stand.

“Wait, hey, look – I came over here to introduce myself, and I was wondering if, like--”

“Come on, then.” The man withdrew a set of keys from his pocket.

“What?” Jaskier, for once, found himself with a shortage of words.

“You wanna get out of here, right? Let's go, then.”

“R-right.” Fuck, shit, was this happening? Usually his conquests weren't so... stoic, and grouchy. But they also weren't so brutishly handsome that he had to adjust his jeans. “Just, one sec. Gotta tell my mates I'm off.”

The stranger grunted – Jaskier realised he didn't know his name – and watched as the musician darted back to the stage. He picked up his guitar case, traded a few low, heated words with Eskel – who regarded the cop with curiosity – and then he was zig-zagging between chairs that were being stacked for the night, returning.

“Age before beauty,” Jaskier indicated the door, and immediately winced. “I mean, fuck. You lead, I'll follow.”

He could have sworn the man smirked, but he turned his head too quickly for him to be sure. Then he was following him outside, down the street. Jaskier walked slightly behind him, simply because the guy was fast on his feet.

It occurred to him that he was going – _somewhere_ – with a man he'd barely spoken to for ten minutes, in the small hours of the morning, alone. Sure, he was pretty certain the dude was a cop, but he hadn't confirmed anything with a badge or even an acknowledgement of Jaskier's guess. And that didn't mean there weren't bad officers out there. This was a stupid idea, even by Jaskier's standards, and he'd once eaten an entire jar of fish food flakes to win a one dollar bet. Still, something propelled his feet forward, and it wasn't even the bravado of liquor.

Maybe it was the way the pale-haired man's butt looked in the dark-wash Levi jeans that he was wearing.

By the time Jaskier's inner monologue had decided that maybe he should listen to the minuscule atom of common sense that was shrieking at him through a megaphone, they had arrived at a parked car. It was a classic, and so fittingly masculine that Jaskier almost laughed out loud. Instead, he settled on a low whistle.

“Nice.” He said, running his fingers up the hood. “What is, uh, she?” He knew enough that most dudes who were into motors referred to their vehicles in a feminine way – a fact which baffled the musician, quite frankly – and that they liked to talk about them. The stranger wasn't exempt from this stereotype.

“1965 Pontiac Catalina. Restored her myself.” It was the first time Jaskier heard some sort of emotion in the burly man's voice, and so he pressed.

“She's very...” Fuck, what was a good word? Pretty? Savage? Scary? “...Well made.” Jaskier offered, and was satisfied with the small hum that his bar-friend made. He said nothing further, unfortunately; he merely unlocked the passenger door for Jaskier, and then went around to the driver's side. The front seats were neatly upholstered in black leather to match the exterior, although the monochrome was broken up by small accents of gold here and there; the handle of the gear-stick, the ring in the centre of the steering wheel, the circular vents of the air. Sadly, the interior was otherwise void of personality; he'd expected some littering of trash, or maybe one of those sirens that police stuck atop their car roofs when they were undercover in films. Maybe that shit was in the glovebox. He reached forward.

“ _Don't_ touch Roach.” His company snapped, and Jaskier hesitated.

“Roach?” He asked, “Like, weed? Thought you were a cop.”

The man sighed. “That's her name, the car. Just... buckle your damn seatbelt. What's your address?”

“Oh, _I'm_ hosting, am I?” Jaskier's tone went playful, “What if you turn out to be some weird stalker?”

“Then you shouldn't have gotten into a car with a stranger.” The man retorted, a dark smirk on his lips, and Jaskier felt the most insane urge to reach across the seat and kiss him.

So he did.

He was accepted wholly, immediately, as though the man was expecting the turn of events. There was nothing soft or exploratory about their meeting; tongue and teeth clashed clumsily as they briefly battled like the kiss was a war, until Jaskier relented and let the man suck his lower lip and nip at the soft flesh there. He tasted like whisky and the vaguest note of tobacco that had been partially covered by the hasty chew of spearmint gum. His beard scraped Jaskier's soft skin, but he didn't pull away until they were both breathless and wild of eye. The man was straining against the button-fly of his Levis, and Jaskier palmed his cock eagerly, absolutely thrilled to find an impressive length beneath the fabric. Maybe the guy did actually lift; steroids were a hell of a thing.

“Address.” The man reminded him with a snarl riding the edge of his tone. Dumbly, Jaskier nodded, and rattled it off. The car started with a roaring rev, and then they were moving.

“I-- I wanna suck you.” Jaskier confessed, half-question, half-plea. His company visibly shuddered, but after a moment, he nodded.

Eagerly, Jaskier's fingers undid each of the buttons with nimble skill, despite the fact that he was trembling slightly with adrenaline. He was annoyed to be impeded by a pair of high-quality black boxer-briefs, but he supposed commando wasn't a style for everyone. With haste, he tugged the waistband down until they settled beneath the man's balls, and then they both groaned.

He was big, flushed red with arousal and glistening precome already, and he was there for Jaskier to take.

Slicking his lips wet first, he opened his kiss-swollen mouth and took half of the cop's length into his throat without the barest hint of caution, or the choke of a gag reflex. “ _Fuuuck!_ ” The stranger cursed, and Jaskier felt the vehicle veer ever-so slightly. Was it a good idea to be giving road head to an officer who'd just been drinking, who he'd met very recently, and whose name he had yet to learn? That tiny atom of common sense was demolished beneath the sound of his companion's moan. It was the hottest noise Jaskier had ever heard in his twenty-three years of existence, and he knew then and there that he'd do everything in his power to extract it as many times as he possibly could.

It wasn't Jaskier's first dick rodeo. One of his favourite things to do was give head, a talent that he put to eager use, taking the man's cock as far into his throat as he could manage. He was a little annoyed by the inch that he just couldn't fit, and he vowed that when they were in a different setting, he'd conquer it. For now, he settled into a quick and dirty rhythm; his lips slicked back up as he suckled, cheekbones on display with the concave curve, and he explored all the parts of his partner's dick that would usually elicit a reaction. The ridge of his circumcised head? Oh yes; the cop hissed in pleasure as Jaskier's tongue probed. A slight scrape of teeth? No, too much, or too precarious considering the whole driving thing; he felt the flinch, and didn't repeat the move.

When he began to drool on the tip of the man's twitching head, using the saliva as lubrication for a faster service, his head bobbing lewdly, he felt the tell-tale thicken and strain against his tongue. The increased pulse. “Fuck, _Christ,_ ” The white-haired god of a man moaned, “Get off, let go, _get off,_ m'gonna-- fuckin' _come_.”

But Jaskier simply purred and slid his lips back down, fitting him precisely in his throat, his talented muscles squeezing in swallow. He felt the car jerk sideways and slam to a halt, and in the next moment the man roared in pure primal pleasure, holding Jaskier's head tight as he came furiously. Jaskier drank down every hot gush of seed that was offered to him, refusing to spill a single drop, nuzzling into the man's trimmed pubes and slurping obscenely until he started to shudder with hypersensitivity. Only then did he withdraw, letting the quivering cock go with a dramatic _pop_ , kissing the tip a temporary adieu.

The man was panting raggedly, his beautiful, strange eyes glazed, sweat dotting his forehead. Beneath the tight cling of his tee', Jaskier could see his abdominal muscles knitting, the aftershocks still washing through him. He grinned proudly, and wiped some of his own saliva from his lip. He glanced around.

“Where are we?” He chirped, his voice a little thick from the act he'd just performed. The man moaned.

“I... _don't_ care.” He slurred, and Jaskier sat back in his seat smugly. “Fuck, that was good.”

“I aim to please.” Jaskier said, and the man rolled his head, meeting his gaze. “So, my place...?”

For a moment, the other man frowned, and Jaskier was terrified he'd just kick him out of the car right there – downtown somewhere – and leave him behind. He'd gotten off, after all. But he relaxed a little when he was afforded a shy grin.

“I, uh. Halfway through... _that,_ ” He gestured to his cock, which was still hard, “I forgot where we were and just... kinda _drove._ ” With a low groan, he tucked himself back into his pants. “Remind me?”

Jaskier blew out a little breath, and repeated his address. The car revved again, and with a graceful u-turn, they were headed in the right direction once more.

“So, uh. I'm... Jaskier.” The musician offered, lamely. Maybe he should have opened with that at the bar. Or at least before he'd kissed the guy. _Definitely_ before he'd inhaled his cock.

“Noted.” The man said, and Jaskier blinked.

“This is... the part where you tell me your name.” He supplied, hopefully.

The stranger chuckled. “If a demon tells you his name, then you have power over him.” He flicked Jaskier a playful look. “Why would I do that to myself?”

“Noted.” Jaskier snorted, leaning back in his seat, watching the scenery outside the window. The town always looked so strange in the ghostly hours before dawn. “Guess I'll just call you ' _Hot Bar Guy_ ', then.”

The man grunted. “That's a dumb name.”

“Would you prefer Lucifer, then? Or Baphomet? Or Asmodeus? Or--”

“Why do you know so many demon names?” The man asked.

“I'm in a band called _My Heart, Your Blood._ We're not exactly mainstream chart material. We have a song about _horribly_ incorrect arterial haemorrhaging. Maybe you've heard it?”

The stranger laughed genuinely, then, and Jaskier realised _that_ was the sound he'd do anything to hear as many times as possible.

\-----------------

_**Call me friend, but keep me closer** _

_**And I'll call you when the party's over** _

Jaskier waited a few minutes after Geralt had left this time. Stubbornly, he blinked back the sting of tears that threatened his eyes and breathed through the feeling. It was around eleven in the evening; Jaskier hadn't had a gig to play, and Geralt had finished work, stopping by the musician's apartment after a brief text conversation.

The loft that Jaskier rented was by no means luxurious. It was above a boxing gym, and aside from the bathroom, it was a large rectangle that combined all rooms of a house together. There was a nook for cooking (or microwaving, as the case often was), a second-or-third hand couch pushed against one of the walls, facing a small television set that didn't have an aerial (Jaskier liked to play Nintendo 64), a standing wardrobe with his various outfits, plus a desk that hosted a sewing machine. He altered a lot of his clothes himself, true to the punk icons he looked up to. His bed was sizeable, but the frame was a little squeaky. Over time, he and Geralt had made the squeak worse.

Jaskier stumbled to the bathroom to wee, miserably rubbing a hand over his face, looking at the smudge of eyeliner that decorated his palm. It seemed pointless to take the stuff off, only to reapply it; he spent much of his time either neatening the edges if it was getting out of control, or applying more of the drugstore pencil to the rim of his lashes if it was fading. The little room contained a toilet, a sink – above which Jaskier stored his few grooming things, including the pomade he used to tame his hair – and a shower that ran over an old claw-foot tub. He loved that damn bath, and not just because the water pressure of the shower was more akin to a Pomeranian pissing than an acceptable stream to wash beneath. No, he liked that the tub fit him – all of him – and he could submerge himself and block out the sounds of the world. Just the throb of his own pulse. Arterial.

As he lathered his hands with a bar of soap and washed them clean, he spotted something tucked beneath his toothbrush. He knew what it was before he reached for it, but he still made a noise of irritation. A crisp fifty dollar note was folded there, left by Geralt.

Yeah, it helped. He had more to eat, and he wasn't as late with rent, and he rarely had his power shut off now. But sometimes it felt like a transaction. Geralt would hit him up; they'd fall into bed, rest for a few precious hours, and then he'd be gone.

It made him feel cheap. Like Geralt _knew_ he owed him more, but couldn't bring himself to admit it. So he left cash, or bought spare toiletries that he just so 'happened to have', or ordered pizza for them.

But he wouldn't stay the night. He never texted. And he never said why.

Jaskier had certainly begun with hints. He'd say things like, “It's no bother if you want to stay longer,” Or, “Do you want to have breakfast tomorrow?” And Geralt would always gently rebuff him. There was an excuse for every invitation; he had to work too early. He had to be across town to pick something up. Jaskier saw the lies in the way Geralt never met his gaze when he refused the offers.

So he became more direct.

“Stay with me, tonight?” He'd asked once, “Sleep here. I miss when you're gone.”

He remembered the way Geralt had tensed up completely. The horrible span of silence that stretched between them like a chasm. And then finally, “Jaskier, I-- I _can't._ ”

Jaskier had wanted to scream. He'd wanted to kick Geralt out, tell him to lose his number and go fuck himself. He'd wanted to demand why. Why couldn't he just give him _one_ night? Was there someone else? What _was_ Jaskier, to him?

Was he just some dumb deadbeat musician that just so happened to have a very talented mouth and an exceptional skill in the bedroom?

Was he Geralt's guilty secret?

Unfortunately, he didn't have the heart to do any of that. He'd just nodded and accepted the answer. Geralt had left without cuddling him that night, and Jaskier had cried over him for the first time. That was when he realised he was in love. That was when he realised he wasn't good enough for that love to be returned.

Geralt didn't hit him up for two weeks after the incident. Jaskier had lost count of the number of times he'd typed out a message, hovering over 'send' as though it was a launch button for a nuclear weapon. He always deleted the words. Fuck him.

Jaskier would not beg to be loved.

Weeks later, when his phone had lit up, he'd hated himself for how quickly he'd responded. For the fact that he'd responded yes at all. But Geralt brought a new beside lamp (that he'd had 'laying around' at home; he'd noticed Jaskier's no longer worked) and wore such a woeful expression that Jaskier found out a second truth about himself.

His love was unrequited, but he'd give it anyway.

Now, as he stared at the fifty bucks that would pay the rest of his rent – _exactly_ , because fuck him, Geralt _knew_ – his hands shook, and he didn't bother suppressing the sob that bubbled up his chest and burst from his mouth. It hurt. It was hurting, and he was too weak to do anything but wander back into the arms of his tormentor again and again, wearing bruises on his soul in the perfect shape of Geralt's hands.

In a whorl of emotion, he stormed from the bathroom and snatched up his phone. It was late, and Geralt was either getting into his own bed – maybe alone, maybe with someone else – but Jaskier didn't care.

 _Leave more next time_ , He texted, _Whores are about two hundred bucks an hour_.

Then he turned his stupid broken phone off, climbed between the sheets that still smelled like Geralt and sex, and cried until he was so exhausted that he fell into an achy, fitful sleep.

_**Let's just let it go**_

_**Let me let you go** _


	2. The Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to let Jaskier go, but he finds it incredibly difficult. Two idiots in love with huge communication issues (That's the entire Geraskier fandom summary, let's be honest). Inspired by Billie Eilish's song 'When The Party's Over' (Lyrics in bold/italic). Mostly Geralt's POV. This one kind of got away from me a bit.

_**Quiet when I'm comin' home and I'm on my own** _

_**I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that** _

Geralt was just sitting down in front of his desk, flicking a case file open, when his phone chimed. He hated texting; it felt so impersonal, and it was too difficult to read inflection in written words. Jaskier was the only one he had the message tone activated for. Anyone else knew that they should call him.

Not that he kept many friends. Or stayed in touch with his family much. Whenever it rang, it was most likely work.

He thumbed the screen active, and read the message.

_Leave more, next time. Whores are about two hundred bucks an hour._

The muscles of his stomach clenched, and he tasted something sour in his mouth. Jaskier was angry. And Geralt knew he had a right to be. Knew he’d been keeping the man at arm’s length. He wasn’t stupid; he saw the hope in Jaskier’s eyes every time they met up. He understood the little offers made; would he like to see a film? Grab dinner sometime? What’s his favourite colour? Birthday?

Jaskier wanted more from him, and for some fucked up reason, Geralt wasn’t just cutting him off like he’d done in the past with other lovers. He was stringing him along, never quite saying no, never giving him a yes. And it was coming to _this_.

Some irrational part of him worried that Jaskier needed the cash, and that he should maybe drive over to give it to him. He thumbed his car keys absently, and frowned. It wouldn’t be a well-received gesture; even if Geralt wanted the energetic musician to have a better quality of life, he knew that Jaskier was already onto him, what with his little gifts. The small affection he tried to leave.

Did Jaskier really think that Geralt thought of him as a cheap whore?

Before he knew what he was doing, he was hitting the call button beside Jaskier’s name. It didn’t ring. Instead, he heard Jaskier’s chipper voice.

_Hey, you’ve reached Jaskier’s voicemail! Leave me your love!_

Geralt ended the call without leaving a message. Jaskier’s phone had run out of battery, or it was switched off. He glanced at his keys again, and groaned, pillowing his head in his hands and fisting his grey locks. His eyes darted to the clock on his desk, which informed him he had about six hours until he needed to be back at work.

Then he glanced back down to the manila file in front of him. Case 10435, the tab read, in his own neat handwriting. Beneath the folder he knew he’d see his notes, dot-point and intricate. Under that, crime scene photos. Two kids, siblings. An autopsy report that detailed extensive neglect that the city – the one he worked for – had failed to take action upon.

He pushed it aside and stood up, turning the light off as he exited the room. As he headed towards his bed, he peeled his shirt off, wrestled with his boots, and kicked his jeans away. When he fell onto the mattress face-down, bone-tired, he presumed sleep would find him with ease.

Instead, his mind saw fit to replay his first ever encounter with Jaskier.

\---------------

The bar was perfect. Dark, not crowded, and boasted whisky other than Jack Daniels – which Geralt would not use to wash away piss from the pavement. The piss deserved better. The band that was playing was actually decent, and as he nursed his drink, he glanced over to the stage.

The lead singer was a music enthusiast, that much was obvious. He was tall, built with lithe muscle, his chestnut hair neatly tousled by a mixture of hair product and sweat. He wore black jeans that were torn at the knees and patched at the thighs with plaid, and his red tee’ was covered with hand-drawn crosses in sharpie. The back of it was shredded, as though a jungle cat had taken claws to the material. Three necklaces of varying length dangled from his throat, and he had black-and-white cloth knotted at one of his wrists. When he opened his smoke-rimmed eyes, the contrast of his aquamarine irises against the dark kohl was haunting.

He was hurting and howling and pacing the stage and Geralt was angry, _infuriated_ that a man could be so captivatingly beautiful. As though the musician had been placed there to tempt him, to destroy his self-made oath of solitude. As though fate was mocking him.

In retrospect, he should have left then and there. But he was rooted to the barstool – and not just because it was sticky – and he remained there throughout the last call. By the time the band wrapped up, he was simply hoping for a last glance of the musician as he exited the bar. Nothing more.

Jaskier’s approach had stunned him almost silent.

He knew flirting when he heard it, knew a proposition, and he should’ve gently rebuffed the charming Brit’. Should’ve remembered the things he’d told himself after his last hook-up. Should’ve, should’ve, _should’ve_.

Instead, he basically abducted the man.

Fuck, the _car._ The mouth on Jaskier. He was born to be doing more than playing shitty dives and sucking Geralt senseless, but for the latter talent, he was _incredibly_ grateful. In general he had stamina and control but when it came to Jaskier, both of those things crumbled away like chalk-cliffs battered by the sea.

The sea of his eyes, when he’d risen from between Geralt’s legs. _Fuck_. They’d been so earnest, so full of lust. He'd felt a wildly primal urge to mark this man, to leave pretty bruises on the slope of his clavicle. To rev the engine of his car and just fucking drive to Vegas so they could find one of those drive-through chapels, and—

He settled on going back to Jaskier’s home instead. He’d felt a pang of guilt upon entering; his own apartment was so much nicer, and in a better part of town. Jaskier kept his loft fairly clean, but when he opened the kitchen doors to get glasses so they could drink some water, he saw how bare the pantry was.

Geralt had dug his nails into the palms of his hands. _Wasn’t his problem_. Jaskier didn’t even know his name. This was a one night, once off. Yeah, he was _bending_ his own rules a little bit, but not breaking them.

But when Jaskier took his hands and guided him to the bed, sitting him down and straddling his lap, Geralt knew on some deep level that he was helplessly, royally screwed.

The musician was greedy with his desires, pulling Geralt’s tee’ up and over his head, and he’d complied. He sighed with pleasure as Jaskier’s mouth mapped out his torso, nuzzling into the pale hair there, skirting around scars and not asking questions. He felt the man rocking against his hips, felt the nudge of his cock beneath the DIY jeans he wore, and undid the fly, freeing his length. It was curved and red with arousal and Geralt gathered the precome that beaded slick at the tip with his thumb, fisting his hand down Jaskier’s shaft in tight, precise strokes. The other man whimpered at his neck, bucking into Geralt’s grip, and the both of them panted as Jaskier shuddered bodily, throbbing thickly as he came, painting hot ropes onto Geralt’s bare chest. He arched his back and moaned through his orgasm, and Geralt had never seen such beauty in his entire life.

He was searingly hard beneath his Levis again.

“Fuck, _Christ,_ ” Jaskier gasped, sitting back a little as Geralt released him, “Sorry. It’s just, um, the car. You were so _hot._ I’m a bit worked up.”

Geralt chuckled roughly. “It’s not like I lasted long under your mouth.”

Jaskier grinned cheekily, pulling his own shirt free to clean the come from Geralt’s chest. The gesture was intimate, touching. Those summer-river eyes found his again.

“Give me like, ten minutes, yeah?” He asked, shyly biting his lower lip. “I don’t want to end it here.”

“Me neither.” Geralt confessed, and pulled Jaskier down onto the bed to rest with him. The musician kissed the column of his throat, all brushing teeth and soft humming, and Geralt felt soothed and aroused and loved, all at once.

 _This is temporary_ , he reminded himself strictly.

But for now, he could pretend.

He shifted a little, and traced his fingertips through the delightfully thick hair on Jaskier’s chest. “Geralt.” He murmured, and the other man raised an eyebrow in question. “My name is Geralt.”

“Ah,” Jaskier purred, sighing as the other man’s thumbs brushed his nipples, “I have power over you now, do I?”

“Depends on how well you know your exorcism rites.” Geralt deadpanned, and Jaskier laughed. It was such a beautiful sound.

“S’pose I’d better convert to Catholicism as soon as possible, then.” He grinned, “D’you think they’d be okay, what with all the... y’know, songs about sex and violence and love?”

“Send the Pope your demo, and see what he says.” Geralt said, and Jaskier had giggled into the kiss they shared.

\---------------

A week after that, Geralt _just so happened_ to stop by one of the bars Jaskier was playing. The musician absolutely lit up at the sight of him. That time, they didn’t even make it to Geralt’s car; they found an alleyway, narrow and private and suspiciously clean, but Geralt would’ve knelt and sucked Jaskier off regardless of the state of the ground, because the moans he had to bite back were absolutely divine.

He didn’t ask for anything after. He just kissed the other man, and handed him his card. It had his number on it, and the address of the building he worked for, but nothing else. Nothing personal.

Still, Jaskier had taken it as though it was a precious treasure, and had promised to text soon.

\---------------

Work was both easier and harder with Jaskier in his life. Easier because he was more relaxed, and had something to look forward to. Harder because it was an incredibly pressing job, and it stole much of his free time. Jaskier soon worked out that Geralt called the shots, when it came to them meeting.

And Jaskier was _always_ free for him.

Sometimes Geralt suspected he’d shirked other plans or obligations just to meet him, but he was fucking selfish, and he never questioned it. He just arrived at the musician’s loft and fell into his embrace. They didn’t talk much – it never seemed as though there was time – but they had an easy sort of comradery that Geralt hoped would be enough for Jaskier.

It wasn’t enough for Geralt, but he had to pretend it was.

Unfortunately, a few weeks into their arrangement, the hints began. Every time he refused Jaskier’s company beyond their physical needs, he hated himself a little more. When he declined to stay the nights, his eyes begged yes, but his mouth said no. And his heart, it twisted and twisted at the expression on Jaskier’s face.

But the musician played it off. Acted as though what Geralt was doing was appropriate and fine. As though he didn’t deserve _better_.

There were times that Geralt didn’t see him for weeks, although he had free moments. He tried to end it that way. He tried to release Jaskier from him, hoping that he’d find someone better in that time and move on. That he’d see his worth. But inevitably, Geralt grew weak, and would text.

Jaskier would always reply. And they’d begin the routine again.

Geralt wanted to say, _I love you._ He wanted to say, _I love you but I’m not good for you, and I know that’s selfish and I’m sorry._ But he didn’t know how. So he tried to do the little things that a boyfriend might do, and not say anything about them. Buy groceries. Fix a leaky tap. Leave money for essentials. It wasn’t enough – it wasn’t _close_ to enough – but it was all Geralt had to offer safely.

And now it had come to this.

\---------------

Geralt rubbed his bleary eyes and knew sleep wasn’t coming for him at all, that night. It was much later, but he picked up his phone anyway, and tried Jaskier again.

_Hey, you’ve reached Jaskier’s voicemail! Leave—_

Geralt growled and hung up. He rolled onto his side, away from the clock, away from the phone. This was his chance, he realised. This was his chance to let Jaskier go. He’d finally seen what a self-absorbed piece of shit Geralt was, and now he could leave. He might block Geralt’s number. It was for the best.

 _It was for the best,_ he repeated to himself, as he clutched a spare pillow to his stomach. He couldn’t taint Jaskier. Couldn’t bring him into the bloody misery of his life.

He had to stop thinking about himself and let Jaskier be free.

\---------------

Jaskier didn’t return his calls, and Geralt wasn’t surprised. One week stretched into two, two into three, and some nights he had to literally put his phone in another room so he wouldn’t be tempted to text the musician. He told himself he just wanted to check on Jaskier. He lied and thought, they were friends, right? He just...

_No._

Jaskier deserved more. Jaskier deserved the chance.

\---------------

_**Don't you know too much already?** _

_**I'll only hurt you if you let me** _

An entire month later, he was leaving his office, exhausted. His current case was an appalling injustice against a woman and her infant child, horrific even by his standards – and Geralt had seen a _lot_ – and he wanted nothing more than to go home, run a hot bath, and drink a third of a bottle of Maker’s 46. As he locked up, he nodded at the skeleton night-shift crew, and made his way downstairs. He preferred them to the elevator – he’d say it was for fitness, but in truth, he thought elevators were just hanging death-boxes – but the route did take him near the holding cells downstairs.

Usually he drowned out the sounds of the people in temporary lock-up, because it was none of his business and he was done with that level of police work, but today a particular voice filtered through the noise of the others and pierced directly into his consciousness, halting his step.

“Oooh so strong and _tough,_ ” The British accent was slurry, “C’mere and tell me that. Oh? _Oh?_ Y’can’t? Bars in the way? _Fucker_.”

Jaskier.

Geralt pivoted on his feet and strode towards the cells, swiping his keycard for access. He paused at the desk where the officers were going over file notes, and cleared his throat. One looked up, and started a little.

“Detective Rivia,” The younger man fumbled, “Good evening, sir. What brings you here?”

Geralt understood the rookie’s hesitance. Geralt had risen through the ranks as an officer to become a notorious homicide detective. He was ruthless in his pursuit of justice, thorough, and he’d see a case to the very end. He had a reputation for dealing with the cases that nobody else wanted, and he was one of the few that didn’t crave the ladder-climb that came with the job. He’d been offered a position as lieutenant – two ranks above detective – and he’d declined it, because he wanted to stay in the thick of the crime, where he knew he could make the most difference.

He was a legend at the academy, and in his own building. But he never played it up. Never even turned up to the award ceremonies where they’d hand out medals. He had a box of them that he sometimes used as a footrest. The fact that he kept to himself made him even more of an enigma.

“You’ve booked someone by the name of Jaskier Lettenhove?” He asked, although he already knew the answer to the question. Jaskier was singing now – Toxic, by Britney Spears. Somehow he made it sound good, even though he was clearly under the influence. “What is he in for?”

“Uh,” The officer tapped on the computer, “Drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, destruction of public property.” He looked up. “I didn’t make the arrest. Officer Kelson did, and he clocked out an hour ago.”

Geralt sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “I’ll bail him and take him into my care. Make a note on his file that I did so without consulting Officer Kelson. I’ll take responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer nodded. There were questions in his eyes, but all he said was, “Friend of yours?”

“Something like that.” Geralt muttered, and then, “Don’t worry. He’ll be at his hearing.”

“He’s got a little record, but this is barely a misdemeanour. I think it’s possible Kelson was having a shitty afternoon, because...” The officer scanned the notes, “As far as I can tell, he was just kicking a bin. Not much destruction involved.”

“Good.” Geralt said, “But I’m not asking you to make this go away. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer nodded, and watched as Geralt strode down the hallway.

He ignored the shouts and leers of the other locked up individuals, until he came to a cell almost at the end of the row.

“Youuu’re toxic, I’m slippin’ _uuunder,_ ” Jaskier trilled, laying flat on his back on the stainless steel shelf that was bolted to the wall, “With a _taaaste_ of poison paradi _iiise!_ ” His voice hit high, and Geralt winced, but not because of the song.

Jaskier looked like absolute shit.

He had a black eye that was not fresh – the bruises were fading to yellow, and Geralt guessed he’d received it a few days ago. A bandage wrapped his right arm, dirty and fraying. He was dressed in jeans that were more rip than fabric, and Geralt knew by the dirt on his skin and the scabbed scuffs that it wasn’t a fashion choice. His eyeliner was one singular smudge across his face. He reeked of cheap vodka and vomit.

“Oh, Jaskier.” He murmured, and the musician propped his head up.

“Eyyy! S’my mate, my, _my Geralt!_ ” Jaskier rolled off the bench, hitting the ground with a thud, and Geralt grunted. He pressed his keycard against the lock and entered a pin. “Ooh, floor, s’the floor.” The other man muttered, apparently confused as to how he’d gotten there.

“Come on.” Geralt stooped, and helped Jaskier to sit, “Can you walk?”

“ _Geralt._ ” Jaskier whispered, and locked bleary blues so earnestly with his own eyes that Geralt felt his heart skip a beat. And then, “I’m gon’ throw up.”

Geralt directed him over the bowl of the toilet just in time, rubbing his back as Jaskier retched. He felt livid, but it wasn’t because of the musician. It was the state he was in. Geralt wanted to believe it was because he was on a bender, stupid and reckless, but deep down he _knew_ why Jaskier was like this.

He hated himself even more.

When Jaskier was done, Geralt wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet, pausing to fill a paper cup. “Sip.” He instructed, and Jaskier obeyed. When half of the liquid was gone, he stood again, and slung Jaskier’s arm over his shoulders. “Lean into me.”

“Oh, oh, are we,” Jaskier’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, “ _Escaping?_ Geralt, this s’so exciting. I’m in a prison... film.”

Geralt gritted his teeth together. “I’m a detective, Jaskier. You’re being released into my care.”

Together, they lumbered towards the exit. Geralt nodded at the officer in thanks, although he knew there’d be office gossip tomorrow. Fuck it. He swiped his keycard, still bearing most of Jaskier’s weight, and half-stumbled, half-dragged the inebriated musician to the garage, where his baby was parked.

“That was so _coool,_ ” Jaskier enthused, “That off’cer didn’t even _see_ us. We’re so smart.” Geralt propped him up against the side of Roach as he unlocked the passenger door, careful not to let Jaskier slide down and collapse. Then he helped the other man into the car, although they squabbled over the seatbelt.

“Buckle it.” Geralt instructed, as Jaskier smacked his hands away.

“M’not a child, I got it, I got, I _got_ it.” Jaskier jabbed at the buckle uselessly until Geralt heaved a sigh and forced it into place, restraining the musician’s slappy hands. Once he was satisfied that his – what _was_ Jaskier, now? His ward? – was secure, he closed the door, locked it for good measure, and made his way to the driver’s seat.

As Roach started up with a purr, Geralt checked the mirrors. He paused in thought, reaching over and opening the glove compartment – which Jaskier cooed about in interest – and withdrew a plastic bag.

“If you’re gonna hurl again, please try to get it in this.” He handed the bag over.

“Pssh,” Jaskier snorted, “I hold my liquor. I can’t remember like, _one time_ I ever thrown up. From drinkin’.”

“Uh-huh.” Geralt agreed, as he guided the car out of the garage, and began the drive back to his apartment. Jaskier’s head lolled against the headrest, and he blinked at the scenery.

“Where we goin’?” He asked, after a time.

“My place.” Geralt said.

“But we never fuck at your place.” Jaskier pointed out, “That’d be toooo, y’know. Weird and _personal._ For you. Nowhere for you to run after.”

Geralt’s heart throbbed again, because he knew he was right. But he said nothing, except, “We’re not going to fuck, Jaskier. You’re very drunk.”

“Aw c’monnn.” Jaskier slurred, “Not _really._ I mean, drunk is like... subjective, y’know? Anyway, I’ll do it for free. No, no boxes of cereal or lamps or fif’ty bucks, nothin’.”

Geralt made a low sound. “You aren’t a whore, Jaskier. I don’t think of you like that.”

“Oh, that’s even _worse._ ” The other man complained, “Least people like whores. Am I your... what, like, pity project, then? ‘Cause—”

“We’ll talk about this later, Jaskier.” Geralt spoke sharply, his throat tight. “When you’re sober and clean.”

“I wan’ talk about it _now._ ” Jaskier insisted, petulant. “Y’fuckin’, just, drop me from your life. After all the times. We had _so many times_ , Geralt. An’, like, I get it. I get that I live in a shitty loft, an’ I’m a shitty musician,”

“Jaskier,” A warning.

“And y’have other lovers or _whatever_ and okay sure fine s’fine. I’m not faaancy. I’m not...” His voice grew smaller, “Good ‘nough. Never have been. S’not new to me.”

“That’s _not..._ that’s not why.” Geralt’s voice was pained. The car slowed as he turned into the parking lot of his small apartment complex. He guided Roach into his space and turned the engine off.

“Why, then?” Jaskier’s voice was still little, even though the purr of the car had stopped.

Geralt sighed. “I’ll tell you. Everything, the whole truth. But not when you’re drunk and need a bath, Jask’. And a decent night’s sleep.”

Jaskier wanted to fight again, but Geralt was getting out of the car. Instead of letting the other man use him as a crutch, Geralt saved time by picking up the musician as though he was his new bride, closing the car door with his hip. Jaskier whirled with the sensation of being carried, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Geralt had missed the sound.

Once inside, he took Jaskier straight to the bathroom, sitting him against the wall as he began to fill the tub. Then he left to fetch water, a robe, and a towel.

“This is,” He heard Jaskier’s voice echo, “Faaancy! Geralt, _how much_ do policemen make? Fuuuck.”

“It was left to me by my father.” Geralt appeared in the doorway, handing Jaskier the water. “I am lucky, I know. Drink, please.”

Because he’d said please, Jaskier began to sip at the water. Geralt tested the temperature in the tub, adjusted the knobs, and added some salts to the water.

“Are you givin’ me a posh soak?” Jaskier sounded incredulous.

“Magnesium salts, and... lavender.” Geralt looked embarrassed. “It’ll help the soreness from... whatever you got yourself into. Which I want to _know_ about.”

“Ah, that.” Jaskier drained the water. “...Which part? Cause like, there’s a lot.”

The other man closed his eyes. “All the parts. But, later. C’mon, out of those clothes.”

“Ger- _alt._ ” Jaskier giggled, “Buy me a drink first.”

“You’ve had enough to drink, and we’re _not_ fucking. Don’t make me undress you.”

“Oh,” The musician sighed, “I love your threats, darling.” But he complied as best he could, wrestling with his shirt. Eventually, Geralt ended up helping him, until he was naked, save for the bandage. Then he carefully guided the other man into the water.

Jaskier hissed at the feeling of the warmth and the slight sting of the salt. Geralt murmured soothingly, propping him up, letting him get used to the temperature. “Too warm?” He asked.

“Mmmno.” Jaskier decided, “Smells real good. Smells like you.”

Geralt’s fingers went to the bandage, unravelling it carefully. He tried to keep his features impassive, but the gash on the other man’s forearm was infected and had obviously gone untreated. He felt something boil within him; this wasn’t self-inflicted. Someone had tried to hurt Jaskier. “I have to clean this, Jask’.” He told him, opening his bathroom cabinet to fetch one of many first-aid kits. “It might feel uncomfortable.”

“M’a big boy.” Jaskier assured him. Geralt began by cleaning the area with a liquid antiseptic, and Jaskier immediately yanked his arm away. “Oww, y’jerk!”

“Give it back, Jask’.” Geralt held his hand out patiently. Glaring, Jaskier returned his forearm. He pinched his teeth together as the other man worked, clearing away the crust of dirt and using saline to flush out as much of the pus as he could. It was too late for stitching. He applied a thick coating of antibacterial cream, and wrapped it again. “Do you have any allergies to antibiotics?”

“That’s a _third date_ question.” Jaskier griped. Geralt began to clean away the mess, and narrowed his gaze. “No, I don’t.” He relented, under the weight of those unusual eyes, “But I’m allergic to bananas.”

“Good to know.” Geralt mused, as he withdrew a bottle from the medicine cabinet. He checked the date on the label of erythromycin, and shook out two tablets. “How’s your stomach feeling? Any nausea?”

“Nup.” Jaskier splashed a little in the tub, beginning to wash himself. “Actually, I’m hungry. Y’got cereal?”

“How about an real meal? Buttery toast, fried eggs, bacon...?” He knew what good drunk food was, and knew Jaskier wouldn’t be able to resist. The other man actually moaned, which sent a jolt to Geralt’s cock that he steadfastly ignored.

“Oh my fucking God, _yes_.” Jaskier sighed, “Please.”

“Hash browns? Uh, what’s that shit you Brits are so into... baked beans?”

“If you weren’t saying such sexy things I’d splash you for your slander.” Jaskier looked dreamy.

Geralt nodded, and withdrew his phone. The musician watched, fascinated, as he had a short conversation with someone, gave his order – including French toast – and hung up. “Should be with us in fifteen.”

“You aren’t cooking for me?” Jaskier put his hand to his chest like a southern belle, offended.

“Trust me, you’ll appreciate this more. I can cook, but not like this place.”

“S’n’t it... like, late? Not breakfast time. I know that much.” Jaskier was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. “Who delivers breakfast at night?”

“A place that I’ve frequented for years, that knows I work weird hours.” Geralt supplied, “They’re good like that.”

“Huh.” The musician picked at a scab, and Geralt smacked his hand.

“Stop that.”

“Itchy.”

“I’ll put lotion on it.” Geralt picked up a washcloth, and gently began to wipe the dirt away from Jaskier’s face. He was careful of the bruising, and although he wanted to be stubborn, Jaskier sat still and let him, relaxing into the touch. “Better.” The larger man decided. Jaskier almost looked naked without his eyeliner, vulnerable. But he was clean. “May I... wash your hair? I think there’s... well. There is something in it.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, wisely, “Either pudding, or sick.”

“Hmm. The two genders.”

Jaskier choked on a snort. “Did y’just... make a _fairly recent_ meme joke?”

Geralt smiled. “I know I’m forty-one, but I keep up.”

“You’re _forty-one?_ ” Jaskier’s voice was incredulous. “Fuck, you’ve got some good genes.”

 _Stop letting him in!_ Geralt chided himself, and he was saved when Jaskier tilted his head back.

“Wash me.” He commanded, like royalty, and Geralt chuckled. He picked up the empty water glass, filled it with fresh water from the tap, and poured it through Jaskier’s hair. Then he pumped some shampoo into his hand and began to lather the chestnut locks. Again, Jaskier moaned, and Geralt tried to think about baseball.

“It’s pudding.” His voice was lower, and Jaskier hummed. “Lucky us.”

“Lucky us.” Jaskier agreed, as Geralt rinsed, and then repeated the process. And then he was clean. Geralt towelled his hair whilst he was still in the bath so he wouldn’t get cold, and then helped the other man up, into a plush terrycloth robe that was way too big for him. It smelt like Geralt, and Jaskier wanted to hibernate in it.

Leaving the mess in the bathroom for later, Geralt guided Jaskier out, careful with the other man – who was still a bit stumbly – and sat him in the living room, on a pillowy armchair. “Ohh.” Jaskier purred, “I _live here_ now.”

That tugged at Geralt’s heart, because he wished it was true. The doorbell rang, and he strode off to answer it. Jaskier heard a low conversation, mostly the rumble of Geralt’s baritone, and then the front door latch click again. When he returned, it was with a cardboard box that smelled so heavenly that Jaskier wasn’t sure whether he wanted to open it, or fuck it.

“Eat.” Geralt commanded, handing him cutlery, and Jaskier obeyed wordlessly. A tall glass of water with something fizzing in it was set beside him. “Drink.” The second command.

Jaskier knew an electrolyte supplement when he tasted one, and he wrinkled his nose, but he chugged most of it down. The two pills from the bathroom were produced, and pressed onto the table. Dutifully, Jaskier took them.

“I’ll have a friend drop in tomorrow to write you a prescription.” Geralt murmured, watching Jaskier eat. He’d ordered a sandwich for himself, but he was only half-invested in consuming it.

“Nuh-uh,” Jaskier spoke with his mouth full, “Don’t have insurance.”

 _Of course not,_ Geralt thought. That explained the poor wound care. “Then she’ll write it for me. Don’t worry about it.”

Jaskier paused, half-a-sausage speared on his fork, as he narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “Why... are you... doing all this, now?” The question came from a more sober place, and Geralt almost wished for drunker, smacky Jaskier to return.

“Because I—” The words caught on Geralt’s tongue. He swallowed. “You’re in my care.”

He saw something dim further in Jaskier’s eyes, and the musician put his fork down. “Oh.” He said, but Geralt knew what he meant. _Is that all?_

“Are you finished?” Geralt indicated the food, and wordlessly, Jaskier nodded. “Okay, well, let’s get you to bed.”

“I don’t want to be your problem.” Jaskier muttered, “I’ll just call a cab and go home.”

“You _can’t._ ” Geralt barked, and racked his brain for a reason. “You were bailed under my authority, so... you have to stay, until the matter of your incarceration is settled.” It wasn’t _strictly_ true; if Geralt didn’t deem Jaskier a risk of avoiding his hearing, he was free to go home.

But there was so much left to say. And Geralt didn’t want him to leave. _Selfish_ , the voice in his head reprimanded, and he knew it was true.

“So I’m like, your prisoner?” Jaskier scoffed, “Cool.”

“Just for a day or two.” Geralt said, “Until I can straighten things out at work. Plus, I mean, come on. It’s better than the holding cells. Right?”

Jaskier looked around himself, at the nice furniture, the expensive art on the walls, the tastefully decorated mantle. “I guess.” He said, hesitantly. And then, “I understand why we stayed at mine all those times, now.”

Geralt’s stomach lurched. “I _like_ your loft.”

“I’m tired.” Jaskier decided, and went to stand. Geralt was beside him, but he kept a small distance, guiding the other man to his bedroom. He had a guest bedroom, made up and comfortable, but...

Damn it, he wanted Jaskier to sleep in his bed. Wanted to smell him on his sheets. _Selfish!_

Jaskier shed the robe, and Geralt handed him one of his shirts. “It’ll be big, but...”

He was almost refused, but then Jaskier took it, and slipped it over his head. Geralt felt his heart squeeze at the sight of the musician in one of his old academy sleep tees, and knew that he wouldn’t be washing it after this. “What side?” Jaskier asked.

“Oh, I was... going to sleep in the other room.” Geralt mumbled, “I don’t want to presume, or crowd you.”

“If you want, you...” Jaskier trailed off, and sighed. “Never mind. Just, I guess... I sleep on the right.”

Geralt’s gaze softened. “My things are on the left.”

“Almost seems too perfect, hm?” The musician sat on the bed, and then mumbled appreciatively at the feel of the pillow-top mattress. He wiggled beneath the sheets, and Geralt pulled the soft quilt over him.

“Yeah, it does.” Geralt whispered, as Jaskier’s dark eyelashes kissed his skin, fluttering closed. He stood there and watched as the man gradually relaxed and fell into slumber. Then he left, retrieved a bottle of water and some painkillers, and left them on the bedside.

It was still early, so he retreated to his study to work. He forced himself to concentrate, poring over detail, making his obsessive notes, until the obnoxious clock blared the early hour at him. He sighed, shuffled the file back together, and rose.

His things were in the main bedroom’s en-suite, and so he carefully crept through the room, closing the bathroom door behind him to brush his teeth and undress for bed. After he’d combed his hair out, he slipped on a white cotton tee’, and changed into a fresh pair of boxer-briefs. Then he turned out the light and began to sneak back through the room.

In the pale light of the moon, Jaskier was curled on his side away from the bed, snoozing peacefully. Geralt should have left him there. The guest room was just fine. After everything that had happened, Jaskier deserved space.

But he’d been invited, hadn’t he? Jaskier... seemed to want him to stay. _Fuck_.

Ignoring the protests of his conscience, he climbed carefully into the left side of the bed. Jaskier made a little sound, wriggling back, and Geralt felt the warmth of him against his side. Carefully, so carefully, he turned and curved his body behind the slumbering musician. And then he slipped a hand onto his hip, cuddling him. Jaskier made a contented snuffle.

Geralt was sure that he’d stay up, self-flagellating, but he was asleep within moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on Tumblr @witchernonsense where I post headcanons and trash.


	3. The Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's POV; the month he spent apart from Geralt. They begin to talk things out.

When Jaskier awoke, his senses were immediately flooded with two juxtaposing feelings: pleasure and pain.

_I’m a Divinyl’s song_ , he thought giddily, still bleary with sleep and yet to experience the worst of his hangover’s wrath.

His head throbbed, his legs hurt, and the cut on his arm – actually, that had improved, oddly – but he was wrapped in the most delicious warmth, and the possessor of said warmth was softly snoring. He blinked at the foreign room, took a deep breath in, and stiffened. Was he dead?

Geralt. He smelt Geralt everywhere, and the slightest of glances over his shoulder from his periphery confirmed that the man was asleep behind him, tucked up close, one huge arm thrown possessively over Jaskier’s hip. He warred with the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, wriggle further into the other man’s bulk, and refuse any other rude reality that might present itself.

Unfortunately, his cotton-mouth could not be ignored. Nor could his desperate urge to piss. He spied a bottle of water on the bedside, as well as paracetamol, and decided that this afterlife? Not bad.

Ever-so gently, he began to shuffle out of Geralt’s embrace. The larger man was deeply asleep, and only when Jaskier slipped completely free did he make a low noise of complaint. Then he shifted into the warmth that had been left, and cuddled Jaskier’s pillow.

The sight made him want to cry, and he wanted to stare for longer, but he took up the pills and the water and stumbled into the bathroom. Quietly, he closed the door. After he’d relieved himself, he cracked open the bottle and drank two-thirds of it greedily, tossing back the painkillers.

Thank fuck for his semi-decent liver, he thought. Whilst he didn’t feel like running a marathon, he’d definitely suffered worse retribution from a night of drinking. Faintly, he recalled food, and the taste of an electrolyte drink, and then his mind began to reel backwards.

He was resilient towards the after-effects of alcohol, yes, but unfortunately he also possessed very good memory recall, even when absolutely wasted. And last night? He didn’t want most of the memories.

Alas, he was very much alive.

They marched through his brain like a slide-show forced upon him by an enthusiastic grandparent. Spending his rent money on liquor. A lot of liquor. Throwing up in an alleyway. Crying because the alleyway reminded him of Geralt. Getting so angry over his own weakness that he took out his aggression on a nearby bin. Someone grabbing at him, yelling. The bite of concrete on his legs as he scuffled about with—ah _, fuck,_ with the police officer. Handcuffs. Toxic, by Britney Spears. Geralt, Geralt holding him, Geralt driving him, Geralt bathing him.

All the things he’d said to Geralt with a loose tongue.

He whimpered under his breath and ran his hands through his hair, sitting on the edge of the en-suite’s bathtub. Geralt had bailed him out, and now apparently he was under temporary house arrest – and not even in his own damn house. Not that he had a house. He had a crummy box with a suspicious mould growth in one corner and an air-conditioner that only blew warm air. The place he was in – _this_ was a house. It was clean and organised and light and Jaskier would never be able to afford to live in a place like this.

Fuck, he couldn’t keep the man that lived in this place. And he understood why. Geralt was too good for him. Geralt had a real job, and people that respected him, and a really cool car, and Jaskier? Jaskier had lost a fight with a bin.

It didn’t make sense, though. Why he was here. He hadn’t called Geralt – he’d remember doing something like that – so how had the man known to bail him out? Why did he bother? Jaskier hadn’t heard from him in a month.

\--------------

_**Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin'** _

_**But nothin' ever stops you leavin'** _

When he’d switched his phone back on the next day after sending _that text_ , he’d seen the two missed calls. No voice messages. No text messages. They were made hours apart, and Jaskier had some sick feeling in his gut that it’d be Geralt’s way of breaking it off with him. By at least having a conversation. And he didn’t want to have that conversation.

So, like a reasonable adult, he’d deleted the notifications.

A week had passed without Geralt texting. Jaskier set his ring volume to maximum, downloaded an app that amped up the vibration of his phone enough to rattle his balls in his jeans when a message came in so he wouldn’t miss one. Whilst that was pretty fun when his mates hit him up, it didn’t make him feel any better when he realised how long it had been since Geralt had tried getting in touch.

By the middle of the second week, he was sorely tempted to text the cop. So tempted that when he was out playing, he had Eskel mind his phone so he wouldn’t drunk-dial. That lead to some wrestling, because nine-drink-Jaskier had some _things_ to say to Geralt. But Eskel was good to his word, and did not relent.

At the end of the second week, some dead thing inside of him began to rot in the hollow of his chest, and the black stink of depression invaded his veins. He knew. Geralt wasn’t texting again. Geralt wasn’t calling again.

_Should’ve asked for less than two hundred_ , Jaskier had bitterly thought.

Eskel didn’t need to guard his phone anymore, because Jaskier dropped the shitty thing into a bar urinal one night, and it had met its death beside an obnoxiously-scented urinal cake. At first he’d thought about trying to fish it out and dry it, but then he’d just continued to piss on it instead. Sod it.

His singing was becoming sloppy, as he turned up to gigs already drunk. It was cheaper to buy suspicious vodka and neck it at home than to waste money at the bar. Lambert and Eskel were worried at first, but Jaskier fobbed them off and told them he was experimenting creatively. When he exclusively chose songs about loss, pain, and heartache, their concern increased. When Jaskier presented them with music for a new song he’d written – he called it ‘love is white and I am ink’ – Eskel was onto him.

“Jask’,” He’d approached the subject hesitantly after the end of their set; they’d just about finished packing up, and Jaskier was drinking down the last of his bar tab, “That guy isn’t worth it.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier slurred, “Fuck him.”

“Well, now we’re on the same page, would you get over yourself already?” Lambert had snapped, “We’re not getting booked as much, because you won’t stop wailing into the microphone.”

“Oh, like you need the money.” Jaskier growled, “Daddy pays your fuckin’ rent. Don’t act like you give a shit about the band.”

Lambert bristled. “I’ve been putting up with your shit for _years_ , Lettenhove.”

“Hey,” Eskel interrupted, “Arguing isn’t gonna fix shit, you guys. Jaskier, are you actually gonna be at practice this week?”

“Or will you be too busy crying into your pillow and dreaming about flowing, white hai—”

To be fair, Jaskier had thrown the first punch. But Lambert was being a dick. The other man was stronger, however, and he gave as good as he got. By the time Eskel broke them up, Jaskier was sporting a brutal black eye and bruises on his ribs. Lambert barely had a mark on his jaw.

“You’re fucked up, Lettenhove.” Lambert growled, shifting his bass across his back, “Look us up when you’re not fucking psycho.”

“I’ll look your _mum_ up.” Jaskier spat, childishly, and Eskel began to herd Lambert out.

“Listen, Jask’, I’ll call you later,” His oldest friend promised, “And we’ll figure this out, ok?”

“Good luck with that!” Jaskier called after them, “I pissed on my phone!” And as if it was the funniest thing in the world, he began to laugh, leaning against the side of the stage when tears sprang into his eyes and his breath left him.

“Are you done, kid?” The bar manager finally paid attention, “I’m closin’ up.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m done.” Jaskier mused, and then took a deep bow to absolutely nobody. “Adieu to whatever I was, once!”

The manager squinted as the musician hefted his guitar case up, and wobbled his way out of the establishment.

\-------------

Things got worse after that.

Jaskier could have sworn he had a rainy fund in an old box of flour, but he was disappointed to find that the box, in fact, only contained flour. He vaguely recalled spending the cash on a new set of sheets to impress Geralt, promising future Jaskier that he’d replenish the fund.

Fuck, past Jaskier was such a _moron_.

He was already behind on rent, and now that he didn’t have the promise of any upcoming gigs, he found himself regretting the fight with Lambert. Not enough to take the bus over to his side of town and apologise, though. He was pretty sure his landlord would have to give notice to evict him – something like thirty days – and he was resourceful. He could figure something out in thirty days.

First, he tried busking. He took his old acoustic guitar and sat by a fountain, singing a mixture of popular favourites and some of his own work. After a few hours, he’d made about twenty bucks.

He spent it on liquor.

When he was chased away from his busking spot by an officer – _fucking cops,_ he thought – he hefted his guitar in his hand and thought about the pawn shops near him. The acoustic wasn’t worth shit, he knew that, but his electric...

It was a 1969 Fender Stratocaster, custom made. It had been finished in cherry red, although time had worn the edges of the paint away in places to reveal the wood beneath. By now it was worth well over six thousand dollars. Jaskier had bought it when he was nineteen, relying on his charm to haggle with the vintage-shop owner – who’d been using the guitar as a window display prop. The guy had no idea how much it was worth. Jaskier had bought his most prized possession for just under two hundred bucks, and he treated that guitar like it was a lover.

He stood in his apartment, staring at the instrument in its original crushed-velvet case, and decided that he’d rather eat old flour than part with it.

His Nintendo 64, the games, the nice lamp Geralt had brought over, a few old trinkets – they got him enough to fend off his landlord for a week, as well as buy more bottom-shelf vodka. And a loaf of cheap white bread, because he supposed he needed to eat something every now and then.

Even if he just felt numb and sick most of the time.

The liquor helped him sleep, and it helped him to repress the memories. But now, stuck in his loft with not much but the ends of the bread, his guitar, and time, he found himself sinking deeper and deeper into self-loathing and pity. And after awhile, no amount of liquor could erase Geralt’s pretty pale eyes from his memory.

Musicians did this, he told himself. They had bad patches. All the great ones did, anyway. They probably ignored their only friend when he buzzed the doorbell. They probably fell asleep next to the toilet. They probably considered mixing their old flour into a weird paste and eating it. He’d emerge on the other side with more songs and more confidence and he’d get signed and –

Except that wasn’t happening. It just became harder to get out of bed. He stopped crying as much. Stopped doing anything, really, except drink when he could afford it and think about how much of a fuck-up he was.

It was on his way to the liquor store that a thought crossed his hazy, blackened mind. _Whores were two hundred bucks an hour._ He could do that shit, couldn’t he? Bolstered by cheap beer, he jabbed more liner onto the rim of his eyes, ignored the shadow of stubble on his face, and began to wander the streets late at night.

He forgot to ask for cash up-front, with his first john. After he’d used Jaskier’s talented mouth, he’d kicked him out of the car, and had driven off. Jaskier was pissed at himself for being so stupid. He was more aggressive with his second potential client, and it hadn’t played well for him.

“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that, y’little fag?” The guy had snarled, as Jaskier leaned into his window.

“The best fuck you’d ever have, asshole.” Jaskier had growled. He’d been too drunk to recognise the flash of silver until it was slicing into his arm, and then he’d stumbled back, shocked. He clutched the wound as it bled into his shirt.

“Learn some manners!” The dickhead had hollered, before driving off.

Jaskier slunk back to his apartment, defeated, and had tried to rinse the wound out with water and a little mouthwash that Geralt had once brought over. Then he bound it with an old shirt, and tried to pretend it didn’t exist.

He wasn’t a two hundred dollar whore, after all. He was worthless, and stupid, and naive, and damn it all, he was still _in love._

Two days later, stomach empty of food but uneasily full of vodka, he’d decided to go find Geralt and tell him that he was a dick, and he was mean, and Jaskier deserved to be dumped face-to-face. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the change for the bus fare, which meant walking. Further unfortunate was his encounter with the alleyway, and then the bin.

Although, Jaskier supposed, it did lead him to Geralt.

\--------------

But now, sat frightened in the en-suite, he didn’t have liquid courage. He didn’t have anything but exhaustion, and a new understanding of just how Geralt must have perceived him. The man probably had a wine rack, for Christ’s sake. He had a guest bedroom. Why did he even waste time fooling around with Jaskier?

Because he was a good fuck, Jaskier thought, and because he couldn’t tell Geralt ‘no’. It was like he was incapable of doing it. Jaskier was _convenient_ – just like the place that had delivered the food last night. He fit into Geralt’s life when Geralt commanded it.

He didn’t stay the nights, because why would he? His bed was like a damn cloud. He didn’t want to see films together, because it’d probably be embarrassing to be seen out with the musician. Didn’t want to talk about anything deep, because you don’t do that shit with casual fucks. With booty calls.

Geralt had been saved in Jaskier’s phone as ‘ _Hot Bar Dude’._ He thought of it as a term of endearment. What was he saved as in Geralt’s phone?

There were no answers to be had in the bathroom. After finishing the rest of the water, Jaskier sighed, and slowly opened the door again. He peeked through a crack as if wary of a monster.

The bed was empty.

Soundlessly, he padded across the room, trying to locate his clothes. He heard the sound of water running, and winced. Geralt was using the other bathroom, because Jaskier had been brooding in the en-suite. No matter; he’d find his pants, and sneak out of the house before Geralt was done.

Unfortunately, his clothes were missing. He only found his boots. They were stood neatly beside a pair of Geralt’s shoes; Nike runners, all black. He looked at the fancy sneakers, and at his ancient Doc’s with their one-and-a-half shoelaces, and snorted. It was a terribly fitting representation.

He was considering making some kind of a toga out of the bedsheet when the water shut off. He half-panicked, fussed about the room in a last-ditch effort for his clothes, and ultimately dived under the covers. Geralt probably had to work. He’d pretend to be asleep, and hopefully the man would nick off, and he could make his escape.

They didn’t need to talk about the last month. And Jaskier didn’t want any more pity. His arm throbbed dully, reminding him of the infection, but he ignored it.

He heard Geralt’s footsteps, and kept his back to the door. Closing his eyes, he worked on slow, even breaths. _Asleep_ , he projected. _I’m asleep, you gorgeous, horrible jerk. Go away._

“I know you’re awake, Jaskier.”

“No I’m not.” Jaskier responded, and then fisted his hands tightly, biting his lower lip. _Damn it, damn it._

He felt the bed sink, and opened one eye. Geralt had his back to him, but he only had a towel slung low on his hips. His long hair was loose, combed and wet. Jaskier felt his throat go dry.

_Horrible jerk_ , he repeated. He hadn’t missed him. This didn’t ache.

“I’m... sorry,” Geralt began, “For not sleeping in the guest room. You said you didn’t mind, but...” He sighed. “I should have given you space.”

Jaskier shrugged, and then realised Geralt couldn’t see. “It’s your house.” He offered, “I’m not the boss of where you sleep.”

“But you’re my...” An uncomfortable pause, “...Guest. I will be more courteous.”

“Oh, yeah, you’ve been a right bear. What with the bathing me and feeding me. Absolutely awful host.” Jaskier snorted. “Don’t worry about it. I slept,” Amazingly, dreamlessly, “Fine.”

“Me too.” Geralt said, and Jaskier heard the echo of his own hesitation in the man’s voice.

“Right, well, you’re off to work then? I’ll just... get my clothes, and be off.”

“I called in, today.” Geralt murmured. “Scared the shit out of my captain. I think it’s the second time I’ve taken the day off. First was when...” He trailed off, and cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m home today.”

Well, shit. So much for Jaskier’s covert escape. “Listen, Geralt, you did me a solid – what with the whole jail thing. I promise I’m not usually... like that.” Just recently, he thought. “So, thanks. But I don’t wanna be your charity case any more.”

Geralt’s gaze snapped over his broad shoulder, bright with emotion. “You’re not a charity case, Jaskier.”

“Oh? So you do this with people in lock-up often, then? What, like, you choose one a week...?”

Geralt growled lowly. “I bailed you out because you’re... you were...”

“Say it, Geralt.” Jaskier challenged, “I was your convenient, dumb hook-up, and you felt _guilty_.”

“That’s not what you are!” Geralt’s voice raised, and Jaskier’s anger rose with it.

“What, then? Experiment? Don’t know if you’re gay or not? Your mid-life crisis? Tell me, Geralt, because I don’t fucking _understand_ how I’m the only one that felt anything between us. I mean, I get why you don’t want me _now,_ because Christ, look at your house,”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s tone was all snarl.

“I’d just dirty the rugs, or stink up the sofa or something. And lord, imagine if someone saw us outside together. Is that Detective Geralt? Who’s that riff-raff he’s with? The scandal at your precinct!”

“Jaskier!” Geralt interrupted again, turning to face the other man. His features were a twist of infuriation and hurt, and Jaskier was irritated that he had the gall to look distressed, and also so very handsome.

“Just _tell me_ you felt nothing. Tell me it was nothing, tell me to my fucking face and I’ll go.” Jaskier’s words rang with defeat, but he held the other man’s gaze steadily. _Hit me_ , his eyes said. _Go on, ruin me._

“I felt everything,” Geralt’s confession was a breathy rush, “So I pushed you away. Before you really got hurt.”

Jaskier was not expecting that. He replayed the words in his head, and then calmly asked, “What?”

“I—” Geralt pulled his knees to his chest, looking surprisingly vulnerable. “I’ve learned, over the years, that I am meant to be alone. The shit I see. The shit I do. It ends up tainting anyone who gets too close. I couldn’t bring you into my life, Jaskier, because you’re so...” His breath hitched, “Good. So alive, and strong, and beautiful. But I was too selfish to just let you go, so I...” A wince. “I took of you. I never meant to make you feel cheap. I never meant to... to hurt you. I just wanted to save you from the inevitability of being trapped in a relationship, with me.”

Jaskier flexed his arm to see if the wound still ached, to test if he was having some kind of hallucination. The pain flared warmly at the bandage. He stared, rolling the sentiments over in his mind, picking them apart. Geralt couldn’t meet his gaze. Eventually, Jaskier spoke. “And you didn’t think that maybe I should be the one who gets to decide on what I want and deserve?”

“You don’t understand.” Geralt said, capturing Jaskier’s eyes, then. “I’ve been in relationships, Jask’. Long ones, short ones. They all end the same. Fuck, I was _married_ once.”

Instead of gasping at the revelation, or levelling more anger at the other man, Jaskier spoke softly. “What happened?”

Geralt chewed his lower lip for a moment. “Her name was Yennefer. The whole high school sweethearts story? That was us. She supported me through the academy. For awhile, we were happy.” The words came slowly. It wasn’t a tale often told. “A year into walking my first beat, the fighting started. She hated the hours I worked. Hated that I came home tired and grumpy. Said I was neglecting her, and I guess I was. Then,” He sighed, “Then I got shot.”

Jaskier’s eyes drifted to a scar on Geralt’s shoulder. It was the most pronounced one on his body. “That sucks.” He supplied, and Geralt grunted.

“Yeah, it did. It also sucked for Yen, when two cops showed up at our door. That never means anything good, when you’re married to one. She thought I’d died, and I mean, I did lose a lot of blood. Apparently it was touch-and-go. I don’t remember shit, though.” He ran a palm over his face. “After that, it got worse. She was scared to let me go to work. Wanted me to quit. We fought, and fought, and one day I’m offered a position as detective. More hours, more danger. She couldn’t take it. We divorced when I was twenty-five.”

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier mumbled, because he was.

“After Yen, I dated. But it turns out the same. They hate the hours I work, or the jobs I do. Can’t stomach it. Sometimes, I... withdraw. To cope. ‘Bad at communicating’, I’ve been told.” Geralt played with a loose thread on the sheets, and Jaskier tried not to make a noise, because communication was definitely not Geralt’s forte. “I see... some awful shit, Jask’. Really, _really_ awful shit. I hunt monsters. When you do that, some part of you... becomes monstrous.”

Jaskier sighed. He wanted to reach out, to touch the other man, but he was too scared he’d stop talking.

“That night I met you. Fuck, I was so pissed. I’d been single for years. A couple of one-night stands, yeah, but then... there you were, with your gorgeous eyes and your voice and your brightness, and I was drawn to you. Selfishly, wholly drawn. I tried to show you that I cared. But I just... I fuck stuff up, Jask’. It’s what I do. Things that enter my world become tainted and I just could not let that happen to you.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier ventured.

“Yeah?” He replied, wary.

“You’re an absolute plank, you know that?”

“What?” Geralt frowned.

“What happened with you and your ex-wife. That shit sucks. But you were young. You’re supposed to fuck up when you’re young. Then you carried that guilt, and let it pre-determine all your other relationships. Lemme guess – when you ‘withdraw’, you don’t say you’re doing it, right? You just... wait for the other person to see how bad you are, so they’ll walk away. So you don’t have to do any of the tough shit.” Jaskier propped himself up on his elbows.

“I don’t—you can’t understand. My life is the job.” Geralt’s voice was low.

“Which is very commendable. But everything in life can be negotiated and navigated. You just gotta fuckin’ _talk_.”

Geralt grunted, and then levelled his stare at Jaskier. “Yeah, look, I get that I’m not easy. But you, Jaskier. You assumed the worst of me, because that’s what you think of _yourself_. And okay, I used it to push you away, I get that too – but you called yourself a whore, and last night—”

“I don’t wanna talk about last night.” Jaskier interjected, sharply.

“Well, we’re going to. And a lot of nights before that, because I want to know who cut you, and why you were trying to assault a trash can.”

Fuck. Geralt had opened up to him, and Jaskier knew that he at least had to clarify the things that had landed him in lockup. So he laid his head back down on the pillow, and began from the night he’d sent that stupid text. After that, it sort of all came spilling out.

Occasionally, Geralt tensed, but he remained silent and non-judgemental, encouraging Jaskier with small noises or nods.

“I didn’t mean to wrestle the cop, I just... was pretty drunk.” Jaskier concluded, “Didn’t know he was even an officer ‘til I was in the back of the car.”

Geralt’s eyes were dark, and his jaw was tense. “Jaskier,” He said slowly, “How much do you remember about the man with the knife?”

Jaskier flushed, and stared at his hands. He’d tried to gloss over that part, but Geralt had coaxed most of it from him. “Not much. Dark car. Sedan. He smelled like cigarettes.”

Geralt’s nod was small, and Jaskier realised he was trying to calm himself with deep breathing. “It’s okay.” He said, in a small voice. “I’m okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay, Jask’.” Geralt’s voice was gravel, “But I’m going to make it okay.”

Jaskier fell silent, his headache threatening to return. “So... what now?”

“Now, I call the doctor to come look at your arm. We eat something smothered with cheese for lunch. Maybe we try to mend your jeans a little so your cock isn’t at risk of poking out one of the holes.”

“Hey, easy access.” Jaskier jabbed weakly, and Geralt’s smile was hesitant.

“You don’t... _have_ to stay here, with me, if you don’t want to.” Geralt muttered, “After the doctor, I’ll drive you home. If you want. But, I... I’d really like it if you did.”

Jaskier thought about it, and then nodded. “I’d like to stay, too.”

The relief and smile on Geralt’s face made warmth rush through the aching space in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a last chapter after this, tying some stuffs up.


	4. The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier try the ol' communicating like adults thing. A doctor stops by to see Jaskier's arm, and they have a very meaningful chat. Geralt expresses his desires, finally.
> 
> I intend to write an epilogue after this, because despite the word count, it's still not quite tied up.

Geralt gave Jaskier the option of a bath or a shower, and he chose a bath, because he wanted time to think and baths were his thinking place. That and the fact that Geralt’s fancy salts were nice to soak in. And maybe because they smelled like him.

As Geralt ran the water, Jaskier pulled the borrowed sleep shirt over his head, and lifted the lid of the laundry hamper.

“Wait,” Geralt stopped him, taking the shirt, “It’s, uh. Not dirty.”

Jaskier blinked. “I slept in it, Geralt. Probably drooled on it.”

With fascination, he watched the larger man’s cheeks colour, as he held the garment close. “Smells like you.” He whispered, and Jaskier felt a tingly explosion of delight low in his belly. Stepping closer, he brushed Geralt’s chin with a finger.

“I said I’d stay.” He murmured, “You’ll get plenty sick of how I smell.”

“I doubt that very much.” Geralt said, and for a moment that pulled tense, they stared at one another. Unconsciously, Jaskier’s lips parted, and Geralt began to lean in – and then his damn phone rang.

“Oh fuck off.” Jaskier groaned, and Geralt looked both apologetic and amused.

“Work. I gotta take this. Add anything you like to the water. I’ll check on you in a bit.” Geralt hit the answer button, and his voice changed to something stern. “Detective Rivia.”

Jaskier’s cock twitched at the command in the other man’s tone, and he sighed softly as Geralt left the room. He heard part of the conversation; he picked up the words ‘vice department’, ‘dark sedan’ and ‘knife’, but then Geralt’s baritone was too far away for him to eavesdrop. As the water ran, he sniffed his way through the neat little porcelain jars of salts and oils, and found the lavender and magnesium from the night before. He tossed in a handful, tested the water, and climbed into the tub.

The water was heavenly, and he purred. Geralt’s tub was more modern than his, but this one – the guest bathroom – didn’t have the advantages of the bath in the master bedroom’s en-suite. He’d been too deep in thought to truly appreciate it, but a deep corner spa? It’d easily fit both of them, and Jaskier’s thoughts began to roam towards the depraved as he entertained all the ways they could get clean and then dirty.

He wondered if he should still be thinking about that sort of thing. His dick definitely thought so; it stood hard and lightly thrumming against his stomach, and he regarded it. _Traitor_ , he thought. Geralt was mean. Wasn’t he?

Geralt was fucked up, that was certain, but so was Jaskier. And Geralt was hot, and the damn bathroom still smelled like Geralt’s morning shower, and fuck it. Jaskier wrapped his hand around his cock, giving it a loving squeeze, before he began to stroke. He used a quick motion, careful not to splash with the water lest he give himself away, and knew he wouldn’t last long. It was absolutely not the time to be jerking off, but he was suddenly wildly horny and needy, and he knew he needed the release. He tried to bite back a moan as he felt the pleasure surge low in his belly, and his balls begin to tighten.

“Jaskier, are you okay?” Geralt’s voice was suddenly at the door, “I heard a noise—”

Fuck, _fuck_ , he had the hearing of a damn bat or something. Jaskier opened his mouth to reassure the other man, but he also flustered, looking for a washcloth to cover himself – as if that would be of any use, considering how obscenely his dick was bobbing like an exclamation mark – and as he flailed, he hit his arm on the side of the tub. “Fuck, ow!”

“I’m coming in.” Geralt turned the doorknob.

“No no _no_ , I’m fine, I—” But there he stood, all handsome concern, and Jaskier was naked and wet and on the precipice of orgasm and _good lord,_ now would be a wonderful time for a fork of lightning to split through the roof and strike him down.

Geralt’s lips parted, and his face flushed, but his expression turned lustful immediately. “Christ, I’m sorry,” He said, “I heard you moan and I thought—your arm, and—” And he wasn’t leaving, he was just standing there like an idiot. Because how could he have forgotten how _gorgeous_ Jaskier looked when he was aroused?

“It’s fine.” Jaskier squeaked, willing his erection to shrink, but it did not. If anything, the pulse in his cock increased. _Damn sexy cop!_ “I’ll just... finish bathing.”

“Would you like some help?” Geralt blurted, voice a low husk, and then visibly winced. “I mean—fuck, I’m sorry. I’ll just—”

“Yes.” Jaskier said, before he could chicken out. “Please.”

Geralt’s breath left his lungs in a rush, and he stepped further into the bathroom, entranced. They should be talking, not messing around, and Jaskier deserved space. But he was helplessly drawn. Jaskier was the light he’d fly into time and time again, like a moth mistaking the moon. Slowly, he knelt, and caught the other man’s eyes. They were hooded and hauntingly beautiful and Jaskier nodded ever-so slightly.

With care, Geralt circled his fist around Jaskier’s cock, stroking once, experimentally. Jaskier moaned embarrassingly loudly, raising his hips, and Geralt was fairly sure he could come in his jeans then and there. He could feel the other man’s need, the pulse of his blood, and he angled his head, opening his mouth. With the practice that came from experience, he slicked his lips down Jaskier’s dick, swallowing him into the heat of his throat.

“Fuck, holy _fucking fuck!_ ” Jaskier gasped, one hand knotting desperately into Geralt’s pale locks as the other gripped the side of the tub. His orgasm rocked through him violently, and he bucked his hips in staccato jerks as he spilled down Geralt’s throat, thick stripes of come that were sucked from him. He trembled as the last of his climax was teased from the head of his dick, just the way he liked it, and then slumped back against the edge of the tub as Geralt released him with a tender farewell kiss.

“Fucking... hell.” Jaskier managed, trying to breathe his pulse back to a rate that wasn’t in the heart attack zone, “That was... thank you.”

Geralt licked his lips, and sat back on his heels. “I uh, maybe should have... left you be.” He sounded guilty. Jaskier turned his head.

“Do you regret me, Geralt?” He asked.

“No.” Geralt answered, immediately, “Never.”

“Then quit apologising for things I want, okay?” Jaskier luxuriated in the afterglow like a spoilt cat, stretching.

“I’ll try.” Geralt said, “I just... want to protect you.”

“You won’t do it by pushing me away.” Jaskier slid wet fingers across Geralt’s lips. He kissed them. “Nor by giving me head in the bathtub. Christ almighty, you’ll _never_ be rid of me.”

He felt Geralt’s smile against his fingertips. “Good.” He said.

The doorbell rang, and Geralt turned his head. “Ah, that’ll be Yen.”

“What—you—why’d you invite your ex-wife over?!” Jaskier hissed, scrabbling to get out of the bath.

“I was coming to tell you before, um.” Before they had gotten _sidetracked_. “She’s a doctor. We’re still friends.”

“Oh.” Jaskier towelled his hair, and reached for a robe. The doorbell sounded again. “Shouldn’t you...?”

“Right.” Geralt agreed, and left the room. Jaskier took a deep breath, and sat on the edge of the tub, knotting his robe.

He felt a lot of things – confused, still hurt, guilty – but he also felt hopeful.

\-------------

“Yen,” Geralt opened the door, “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Of course. You said it was urgent.” She stepped through the doorway with the same command she always held, even though she was dressed in yoga pants and a loose tee’ that said ‘ _GIRL GANG_ ’ on the front in faded letters. He’d last seen her a couple of months ago for coffee, and she looked just as well as she had then.

He’d wanted to tell her about Jaskier, but he’d been too scared. He knew what she’d say. She’d probably have also smacked the back of his head and called him a variety of unflattering names. As far as Yen knew, she was here helping him out with a _friend_.

“My friend’s arm is infected. I gave him five hundred milligrams of erythromycin last night, flushed the wound, kept it moist with antibacterial cream and covered with a sterile bandage. It should’ve been stitched, but it’s too late for that now, and he has no insurance.” Geralt cleared his throat. “I was hoping you’d put the prescription in my name.”

Yen eyed him steadily, and Geralt knew she was reading between the lines of everything he said. He tried to keep his expression impassive. He could still taste Jaskier on his tongue.

“Nice to hear that not all my medical knowledge went over your head, at least.” She smiled sweetly, and Geralt felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Yen was never sweet.

Yen was onto him.

“You know I can take care of myself.” He grunted, “And yeah, you taught me a lot of the stuff I know.”

“So where is my patient?” She asked, slipping her Nike shoes off.

“He just got out of the bath, I’ll go get—”

“No, no,” Yen purred, “I need to examine him alone. You know that, Geralt. I’ll take him to your room. Why don’t you go make us lunch?”

“Yen,” Geralt pleaded.

“Those chicken enchiladas you make. Do those.” She grinned at him, all sharp, and he scowled. Defeated, he slouched towards the kitchen. She watched him go, snorted, and headed towards the guest bathroom.

\--------------

“Knock knock!” Yen rapped her knuckles on the door, “Jaskier, is it? May I come in?”

Jaskier stood nervously, and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “It’s open!” He called.

The knob turned, and the woman who came into view was stunning. _Of course she was,_ Jaskier thought. Look at Geralt. Even though she was dressed in what looked to be workout gear, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, she exuded confidence and class. Her smooth brown skin was without a single blemish, and her eyes were so blue that Jaskier swore they were almost purple. If he had any desire for women, she’d be the kind that he’d... well, she was out of his league, but maybe he’d beg her to step on him.

“Hello, Jaskier.” Her voice was warm, “My name is Doctor Vengerberg, but please call me Yen.”

“It’s a pleasure, Yen.” Jaskier said, extending his hand. She shook it firmly.

“Would you mind if I examine your arm in Geralt’s room?” She asked, “The light is good in there. Also, it’ll give us an opportunity to speak more privately, because I can turn on the alarm sensor for the hallway leading to the room and we’ll know if he’s trying to eavesdrop.” Her voice raised in volume as she spoke. There was a muffled curse from the kitchen.

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh. “Has he always had such good hearing?”

“Oh, annoyingly so. I presume he’s told you I’m his ex-wife?” Jaskier nodded, and she continued, beckoning for him to follow her, “We began dating the last year of high school. You know that awkward period when you’re dating and you don’t want the other person to know that you’re a human being? Where you don’t fart or burp or shit at their place? Once, I’d drunk too much beer, and I excused myself into the hallway to belch into my hand. Quietly, mind you. When I came back, he said, ‘did you just make me pause The X-Files so you could burp in the hall?’”

Again, Jaskier giggled. He liked this woman immediately. “Wow.”

“Yeah, so after that, I made it a habit to burp in his face.” She closed the bedroom door behind them, and true to her word, she entered a code into the alarm system.

“Yen,” Geralt’s distant voice called, “That’s _so_ not necessary!”

“It totally is.” She mouthed, before turning. She saw the bed; it was made up, but it was still evident two people had slept there. Not that she needed further confirmation; as soon as Geralt had texted her about his ‘friend’, she’d been suspicious. Geralt had no friends.

But he hadn’t taken a long-term lover in years.

“My clothes are being washed.” Jaskier said, “I think. I’m afraid I’m most inexcusably naked beneath this robe. I thought it best to warn you, in case you think I’m the type to flash beautiful doctors.”

“Oh, please.” She waved him off, “I’ve seen a lot of things, Jaskier. I’m an emergency department doctor. Unless you have two penises... actually, I _have_ seen--"

"I assure you there’s just the one.” Jaskier cut her off.

“Ah. Pity, I could’ve written a paper on you.” She walked over to Geralt’s drawers, and rummaged around, pulling out a pair of boxers. “These will be too big, but if it makes you feel better, pop them on. I’ll turn my back.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier said, accepting the garment gratefully. They were so large that he had to knot the waistband. He hadn’t really noticed how much weight he’d dropped over the last month. “Okay, flashing danger is over.”

“Right.” Yen turned around, and patted the bed. “Sit, sit, and let me have a look-see at your arm. Geralt said he cleaned it, but Geralt says a lot of dumb things.”

“More like doesn’t say _enough_ to say a lot of dumb things.” Jaskier griped, and then coughed. “Sorry, inappropriate.”

“No,” Yen mused, as she unwrapped the bandage, “You’re right. I’ve met parrots more communicative than him.” Gently, she pressed the area around Jaskier’s arm. He tried not to wince. She hummed, and walked towards the en-suite. “How long have you two been dating?”

Jaskier looked down at his feet. “We’re not dating.”

“I know I’m the ex-wife, but believe me when I say that I have zero interest in Geralt beyond his friendship. No, I’m happily in a relationship.” Her voice filtered through the door as she went through the cupboards.

“That’s not what—I’m not jealous of you, Yen. Fuck, you’re charming, actually. I mean, _shit_. I mean, sorry. I swear a bit.”

She laughed. “So do I. There have been studies, you know. People who curse are smarter than those who do not, on average. So – fuck, fuckity fuck shit.” When she reappeared, she had antiseptic and gauze in her hands.

“He was a dumbass to let you go.” Jaskier said, and he meant it. Yen sat beside him, and delicately began to clean the wound.

“I let _him_ go. It took him a long time to let me go. Also took him a long time to realise that he was queer, actually. The occasional woman catches his interest, but he figured out that men are where it’s at. He just needed a little nudging.” She had an excellent manner; the antiseptic stung, but she was thorough.

“Did he... say anything to you? About me?” Jaskier asked, watching as she inspected the clean gash.

“No.” Her voice was softer, and she glanced up at him. “Which means I am going to key the side of Roach.”

“Oooh, he’d murder you.” Jaskier snorted.

“I’d love to see him try.” Yen said, as she applied more of the thick cream Geralt had used last night, and then wrapped the injury back up again in clean gauze. “You’ve been seeing each other awhile, but he’s not made any commitment to you. You feel like there’s something there. He keeps to himself. In fact, you haven’t seen him for... mmm, I’m going to guess a month? Because he pushed you away? Stop me if I’m wrong.”

Jaskier gaped. “How... I mean, yes. We’ve had something... casual. But he never let it become more. How did you know we, er, broke things off?”

Yen gave him a level stare. “Broke things off? You mean he did something stupid and didn’t try to correct it?” Jaskier nodded. “Because he’s done it before. But he’s never revisited a ‘casual’ interest after a month. And he’s _never_ brought one to his house.”

Jaskier blinked, and looked around the room. It was very nice, yes, but it did lack personality. There were no family photographs, no knick-knacks, no ticket-stubs from concerts or ‘to do’ lists. The art he’d chosen for the walls was modern, and fit the aesthetic of the furniture, but it wasn’t Geralt. “How’d you know it’s been a month?”

“Because that’s where I’d place your malnutrition at, Jaskier.” Yen’s voice was soft. “If he’d seen you, he’d have noticed.” She placed a hand against his chest, felt his ribs. “And you’re riding the edge of jaundice. If you were still seeing each other, he wouldn’t let that shit fly. Lay back, would you? I need to palpate your liver.”

“If you’re going to do that to my liver, you should at least ask it out to dinner first.” Jaskier tried to joke, but he did lay back. Yen rolled her eyes.

“You know how often I hear that line?” Her hands were gentle as they pressed on his abdomen. She saw the slight wince on his face. “You need to stop drinking, Jaskier. For at least a month. After that, in moderation, please. And with food. I’ll write a prescription for a decent multivitamin, but it’ll clear up on its own.” She waggled a finger at his face. “The vitamin is not a substitute for food, clear?”

“Clear.” Jaskier’s voice was small. “You’re bossy.”

“Damn straight I am.” She agreed, and helped him to sit up. “Now, I’m writing the prescriptions for Geralt, but he’ll fill them for you. Do me a favour and don’t tell anyone, would you? A cop and a doctor getting done for insurance fraud would be a waste.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier’s eyes were honest, “I promise. You’ve been very helpful.”

Yen smiled, and gestured to the robe. “Pop that back on, if you like. Geralt is making enchiladas for lunch. He’s an idiot, but fuck, he can cook when he wants to.” 

Jaskier’s stomach turned hungrily. “Oh, that sounds good.” He agreed.

She paused, and took his hand. “I can’t claim to know what you’re going through, Jaskier,” Her voice was solemn, “But I know that you’re young and you’re very charming and you have a lot going for you. If Geralt can’t see that, that’s on him. He has a lot of issues too – maybe you’re aware – but he’s a good guy. He just... needs guiding, sometimes.”

Tears suddenly blurred Jaskier’s vision. “Is it breaking doctor-patient thingy if I hug you?” He asked.

“Nope.” Yen opened her arms, “’Cause technically, you’re not my patient.”

She hugged him tightly, and he felt another trickle of hope run through his veins.

\--------------

They were taking too long in the bedroom. Occasionally, Geralt heard Jaskier’s laughter. More than once, he thought about disarming the sensor in the hallway – but he knew Yen would see the keypad stop flashing. Sullenly, he went about shoving the enchiladas in the oven, and then doing the dishes. He had promised Jaskier something smothered in cheese, after all.

Sometimes he thought Yen was psychic.

The bedroom door finally opened, and their voices drifted down the hallway. “It’s true!” Yen was saying, “He was totally a band geek for like, three years. Played the _oboe_. Like, of all the instruments to choose—”

“Stop,” Jaskier wheezed, laughing, “I’m going to die.”

“—The oboe! It got him totally laid though. People go nuts for a man who can blow a reed.” They both appeared in the kitchen doorway. Geralt felt his ears grow hot, and he narrowed his eyes at Yen.

“Oh, tell me about it.” Jaskier enthused, “A guy who knows his way around a spit valve? Be still, my beating heart.”

Yen’s laughter was sharp, and Geralt folded his arms across his chest. “Are you quite done embarrassing me in front of my boyfriend—”

The word was out before he could stop it, and everyone in the kitchen froze. Yen cleared her throat.

“Well, that’s my cue to leave. Jaskier, you have the prescriptions. It was so nice to meet you.” She kissed his cheek.

“But... the enchiladas...” Jaskier’s words were lame; Geralt knew he wanted to use Yen as a buffer. Hell, he wanted her to stay as a buffer.

“My shift is in a couple of hours, so I gotta jet. You fellas enjoy! And Geralt? We’re having coffee. _Very_ soon.” Her eyes were a dangerous flash, and then she was gone, shutting the front door in her wake.

It was silent for a beat, and then both men rushed to fill it.

“Well, I’m starving, and it smells—” Jaskier blurted,

“I shouldn’t have said it like—” Geralt muttered.

They gazed at one another across the kitchen island. The oven timer dinged. Jaskier chewed his lower lip.

“Where did that come from?” The other man’s pale eyes were so wary, so earnest. Geralt knew he couldn’t just brush it off.

“Sounds corny as fuck but... my heart.” Geralt admitted. He turned to shut the oven off, but he never broke Jaskier’s gaze.

“Is that what... you want?” Jaskier tilted his head. He was trying not to look hopeful, but he wore his heart on his sleeve. 

Geralt swallowed, forced down the terror that was trying to silence him, and nodded. “Yes.” His voice was a dry rasp, “I don’t deserve it, after how I’ve treated you, but... yes.”

Jaskier whimpered, and Geralt’s chest squeezed at the sound. He stepped from behind the kitchen island tentatively. Jaskier did the same. There was a brief, hesitant pause, and then they collided, arms clinging, bodies pressing, a tight embrace like they might be able to fold into one another if they tried hard enough. Jaskier was shaking, Geralt realised. Then he noticed that he was, too.

“I want that too.” Jaskier whispered against his neck, and Geralt felt himself melt. He pulled back slightly, and brushed the streak of tears from his beloved musician’s face.

“I’m... a lot to handle.” Geralt confessed, “I already told you that. But I promise I’ll try to be better for you. I’ll work at this. We’ll work it out.”

Jaskier nodded. “I’m going to make some changes, too. Yen wants me to take a vitamin and, like, turns out eating food is good for you. Did you know?”

Geralt smiled fondly. “I have heard that, yes.” He pressed his lips to Jaskier’s forehead. “I’m so sorry. That I wasn’t there to take care of you. That I let you think you were worthless. You’re not. You’re _so important_ to me.”

Jaskier leaned into the kiss. “I’m sorry I believed the worst of myself. Sometimes it gets dark for me.”

Geralt shook his head. “You don’t need to apologise for that. That’s something we’ll work though together.” He smoothed Jaskier’s hair back. “It gets dark for me, too.”

“So we’ll be each other’s lighthouses.” Jaskier murmured, “When you’re awash in that blackness – you’ll look for me, and I for you. We’ll guide each other.”

Geralt never cried. As a detective, he thought he had no tears left to shed. But the sentiment pricked hot at his eyes, and he leaned forward to nuzzle into Jaskier’s clavicle.

They stayed there for awhile, until something acrid began to scent the air. Geralt pulled back, and groaned. “Ah, _fuck_. The enchiladas.” He’d turned the oven off, but the lingering heat had turned them from lightly browned to well-done. With a sigh, he withdrew from Jaskier, and opened the door, wincing at the trickle of smoke, withdrawing the pan of ruined food.

“I’ll still eat it.” Jaskier shrugged, and Geralt smirked.

“Like fuck you will. No boyfriend of mine gets burnt food.” He dumped the pan out into the trash.

“Say it again.” Jaskier grinned.

“ _Boyfriend_.” Geralt said, and delighted at the way Jaskier swooned.

“Oh, I could forgive you just about anything right now, so you’d best make use of it.”

Geralt shook his head. “I never want to push you away again. I do, however, want to pick you up some lunch, fill these prescriptions, and get you a new phone. Godspeed to the piss phone.”

Jaskier sighed. “It died as we all shall; covered in wee.”

Geralt tried to suppress a laugh. “Come on. Your pants are useless, but I have some compression leggings from when I cycle that might actually stay up on your legs. And your shirt is clean in the dryer. We can stop by your apartment and pick up some more clothes.” He paused, “I mean, if you’d... like to stay a little longer?”

“If you’ll have me.” Jaskier shyly traced the countertop with a finger. “And I’ll pay you back for the phone and the—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt said,

“Geralt.” Jaskier replied.

“Let me take care of you?” Geralt’s expression was so sincere and soft that Jaskier utterly crumbled.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier’s cheeks reddened, “Alright. But you get to choose lunch, then.”

Geralt picked up the keys for Roach. “Deal.”

\--------------

With a brand-new Samsung phone (in rose gold, because it was pretty) in his pocket, and half-a-pizza still waiting in the car (they were too hungry to wait), Jaskier ascended the stairs to his studio apartment. Tacked on the door was a pink notice. He winced.

“Ah, thought that’d be coming.” He mumbled, tearing it free.

“Thirty days?” Geralt asked, because it wasn’t the first eviction notice he’d seen.

“It’s more like fourteen, now.” Jaskier sighed, but then shrugged. “It’s okay.” He unlocked the door. “I’ll apologise to Eskel and Lambert and we’ll hit the bar circuit.”

Geralt hummed, watching as Jaskier withdrew a battered bowling bag from beneath his bed. He began to pack: a couple of sets of clothes, socks, his toothbrush. He also picked up his guitar case.

“Do you actually not own underwear?” Geralt frowned.

“Nup.” Jaskier said, “Freeballin’, baby.”

“I’m dating a man who doesn’t believe in underwear.” Geralt sighed, but his voice was fond.

“I don’t believe in underwear, most organised religion, or tequila.” Stooping, Jaskier collected the mail that had been jammed beneath his door. He added it to the bowling bag.

“Tequila?” Geralt asked.

“Hurts my tummy.” Jaskier explained. Then he zipped up the bag. “Right, that’s about it.”

Geralt looked around at the sparse furniture. He saw the missing items; the lamp, the Nintendo-thing that Jaskier liked, a few hangings from the walls. He frowned at the crumpled pink notice poking out from Jaskier’s bag.

“Stay with me.” He said.

“I am, darling, that’s what the bag—”

“No, I mean. Move in. With, with me.” Geralt clarified. He hastily tacked on, “I know it’s soon and all but I don’t have to pay rent, or a mortgage. And I have space. And, and you’d be welcome.”

Jaskier considered him, narrowing one eye. “Move in... in what capacity?”

“However you feel comfortable.” Geralt said. “As a housemate, if you want, although I’d prefer to share a room. But I’d like it if you... moved in, as my boyfriend.”

“This is...” Jaskier frowned, “A lot in one day, Geralt. For you, I mean. I don’t want you to feel obligated...”

“I don’t.” Geralt assured him, “I feel... I feel like I slept better than I have in years, last night. I feel like seeing you in my academy shirt made me want to see you in it every damn morning. I feel like...” His eyes locked with Jaskier’s, “Like I’m being guided to the shore by my lighthouse. Finally. I can finally stop treading water.”

Jaskier’s lower lip quivered. “Does this mean I don’t have to apologise to Lambert?” His voice was tiny.

“No, you should make it right with your friends. And _My Heart, Your Blood_ should play again. You know that.” Geralt said, a gentle chiding.

A smile tugged at Jaskier’s lips. “How ‘bout we see how the next couple of days go, after you go back to work? Then... maybe we can come get the rest of my clothes.”

Geralt beamed. “I think that’s a very good idea indeed.”


	5. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier navigate a new life together, facing what the future brings as one. Fluff and romance and sexy times ahead.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s baritone bounced down the hallway, “Babe? Have you seen my ID?”

“Is it on the hook that I put by your shoes so you’ll always know where it is?” Jaskier’s voice answered from the kitchen.

Geralt huffed. “No, of course I—” But he cast his glance above the shoe rack, where his leather work loafers sat beside Jaskier’s beaten-up Doc Martens, and he saw his lanyard hanging neatly in place. He half-smiled and picked it up, clipping it to his belt.

“How on earth did you manage to live alone for so long, hmm?” Jaskier asked, padding down the hallway. He was wearing Geralt’s academy tee’ and a red pair of boxer-briefs. His chestnut hair was askew, adorably styled by the night’s sleep. In his hands, he held a keep-cup of freshly brewed coffee (black, with two raw teaspoons of sugar), and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil.

Geralt shook his head. “You’ve been here for three days and I honestly have no idea.” He grinned as Jaskier handed him his breakfast, and fussed with his tie. “I’m going to be late, Jask’. Again.”

“And whose fault was that?” Jaskier asked, getting the knot perfectly central. “I was asleep, minding my own business—”

“You were grinding against my hip.” Geralt said.

“ _Asleep_ , though.” Jaskier’s smile was beautiful, and Geralt felt something tug within him. He leaned forward, kissing the other man as chastely as he could, considering how he actually felt. A tiny part of him begged him to call in sick again, but he squashed it. The weekend was coming up, and he actually had work to do before then.

Jaskier seemed to understand – as ever – and he pressed his forehead against Geralt’s. “Be good, be safe. Don’t let the other kids at school bully you, y’hear?”

Geralt made a face, but there was a softness behind it. He grabbed Roach’s keys – on the hook beside the one for his lanyard – and opened the front door. “I’ll see you around six.”

“I’ll be here, waiting.” Jaskier’s voice held a promise that made Geralt’s cock throb, and he had to force himself outside into the cold nip of morning, and away from his new boyfriend.

It was still a new term. _Boyfriend_. It was one he hadn’t used in a very long time, but he found it came easily to the front of his mind when he thought about Jaskier, even if it held a gravity that frightened him. He checked his mirrors, turned the engine, and caught the musician’s form in the window. Returning the goodbye wave, he reversed out of his space and began his commute.

The matter of Jaskier’s charges were all but cleared up. He’d spoken to the officer that had made the arrest, aware that his bias now changed things. So he’d taken off his badge and asked to go on record as Jaskier’s de-facto partner, not as a detective. Although procedure had been followed, and he was careful to insist that officer Kelson thought the charges over, he had a slight suspicion that his status at the precinct was one of the reasons the matter had been dropped. He did not want Jaskier to go through the ordeal of a hearing, a potential fine and probably community service, but he also didn’t want to take advantage of the justice system, ever.

Still, the only real victim had been a trash can – and it had barely been dented. Officer Kelson had been unharmed. Jaskier was lucky.

Whoever his assailant was, however – Geralt had no leads. He didn’t work vice, and he gave them as much information as he could without compromising Jaskier’s identity. They added the perpetrator to their database, and Geralt could only hope that the bastard would get caught before he attacked someone else. Jaskier’s arm was healing well, but Geralt knew that the man that had hurt him would not be content with a simple cut to the arm for long. He tried not to dwell on it.

Now that he wasn’t such a lone wolf, everyone at work had a secret little smile for him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, so he went about his business as usual, mostly holed up in his office. Today, after ducking away from a secretary’s awkward conversation about brunch (why the fuck would Geralt want to go to brunch with people he saw every damn day?), he was poring over a transcript when there was a knock at his door.

“It’s open.” He called, without looking up.

Obviously he had not expected the captain, or he’d have been more polite. But the man entered nonetheless, and Geralt blinked, startled. He closed his file and stood.

“Excuse me, Sir. I wasn’t expecting you.” He apologised, gesturing to the lone chair that sat across from his desk. “Would you like to sit?”

Captain Morhen nodded once in greeting, taking up the chair with command. If Geralt was a legend in his field, Vesemir was a god. The man was aging, now, but in his prime he’d solved some notorious cases alone. He’d been ruthless in his pursuit of justice, pulling long hours and taking on more work than his colleagues. There were rumours that he’d lost his wife and children in a horrible accident, but Geralt did not listen to rumours. He simply admired the man; he was a captain that Geralt was more than content to answer to. 

“Detective Rivia,” Vesemir began, “I’ve been hearing things around the office.”

Geralt swallowed. He racked his brain; he’d followed correct procedure with Jaskier. He had called in sick for one day, but he never did that. As a detective, he knew it was best to stay silent and let the other person fill the space with words, but his expression was not lost on the captain. Not much passed by the man undetected.

“I am not here to reprimand you, Geralt.” He said, placing a hand on the desk, “I am here to... ask a favour, actually.”

“Sir?” Geralt took up a pen, ready to take notes. His case load was heavy, but he’d make the time.

“Take the position as lieutenant, Geralt.”

That was unexpected. Geralt sat back in his chair, visibly confused. “I... with respect, Sir, I refused that position a year ago because I felt my skills are better suited here.”

Vesemir smiled. “You remind me of how I used to be, Geralt. So wrapped up in getting the cases solved that I forgot about the rest of the world. I made the badge my life, and I am not sorry for it. But I didn’t have anyone to go home to. I wanted to make this precinct my home. I wanted to get lost in justice, so I did. Now, I wonder if I missed out. I wonder if my wife would have wanted me to date again, to find a new family. I think she’d look at what I’ve done – all the good I’ve tried to do – and be proud, but...” He frowned. “I think she’d be sad for me, too.”

“Sir, I... I’ve been dating seriously for less than a week.” Geralt felt his ears pinken. He was unused to discussing his private life. He was certainly unused to discussing it with his idol.

“Yes, but before that. Yennefer. A fine woman, she is. Do you know I still go to her for my annual physical?” Vesemir chuckled. “She takes no shit. I love it.”

Geralt snorted. “She took plenty of my shit, Sir, before she saw reason and left.”

“You weren’t quite right for each other, perhaps. Both of you, so strong-willed, so dedicated. There was no room there for debate. It happens, Geralt; partners leave after a traumatic event, like when you got shot. Leave before they get left. Before they only have a headstone.” He drummed his fingers. “Your job, right now, puts you on the streets. And yes, you get things done. But are you happy?” His eyes met Geralt’s. “If you were in your partner’s position – would you want _them_ to take the promotion?”

Geralt considered that. First, he thought of Jaskier in uniform, and had to smile. He’d be a shitty cop. But then he thought of Jaskier in danger, Jaskier without backup, Jaskier chasing a bad lead and having his cover blown. His stomach turned uncomfortably. “I... would, sir.” He admitted, fiddling with the pen. “But I don’t know if I can just... let this go.” He gestured to the files.

“I’m not asking you to.” Vesemir said. “You have a fantastic mind, Geralt. Being a lieutenant means less time at crime scenes, less time in the field, yes. But it means a steady nine-to-five. You’ll be responsible for some boring shit – rosters, processing, other paperwork – but let me tell you, there’s no position in the force that doesn’t come with reams and reams of manila folders.”

Geralt nodded. “I am not afraid of paperwork, Sir. I’ve done my share of it.” The stuffed boxes waiting in the corner to be archived were testament to that.

“The good part? You’ll consult on cases. Detectives will come to you for your take on things. You will have an opportunity to _teach_ them how to see things from your perspective. Yes, it means more time with people,” He smirked at Geralt’s expression, “But if you want to serve the greater good, this is how you do it. You spread your knowledge. And whilst you’ll still be on-call, you’ll get to go home in the evenings. You’ll get to leave work _here_ – to the extent that we all do.”

Geralt knew what he meant. Cases haunted him, even solved ones, even cases that had the best possible outcome. Work would always follow him, but this would mean that less came home. The proposition hit differently than it did a year ago. “Before I... consider accepting your generous offer, Sir. May I wrap up the open cases I have?”

Vesemir rose, and chuckled. “What a predictable thing for you to say, detective. I could tell you that you could simply bring them over to your new position, but what you’re really asking me is, ‘can I think about this?’, and the answer is yes. But I bet you’ll be in my office before the end of next week, filling out new forms. And I am not a gambling man, Geralt.”

Standing in order to open the door, Geralt ducked his head in a nod. “Thank you, Sir. For... your honesty, for the offer. Thank you.”

Captain Morhen nodded, and strode back to his office. Geralt cast his gaze across the floor, to where an empty room sat, the word LIEUTENANT still pasted on the glass. It had been empty since the last lieutenant had retired, with nobody quite right to fill the position. Instead, the captain did most of the rostering and other busy-work on top of his other duties, and the detectives took on more responsibility.

He sat back down. He would be giving up the field, but if he was truly, bluntly honest with himself, he was tired of it. He’d seen enough. Nothing surprised or saddened him anymore. If he stayed where he was, he’d become more and more jaded, which would eventually lead to him slipping. Whilst he was in great physical condition, too, he wasn’t exactly getting younger.

If he took the offer, he’d be helping the captain out, as well as his colleagues. And Jaskier, he considered. He could come home to Jaskier.

The thought made him warm all over. He’d only named the relationship recently, but he’d been seeing the man for months. Already he knew – he felt it in the marrow of his bones – that this was the man he’d stay with. He would try his best to never be the reason Jaskier cried again.

_Fuck it,_ he thought. Why wait until next week? He pushed himself out of his chair, and headed towards the captain’s office. Tentatively, he knocked.

“Detective Rivia,” Vesemir’s voice called, “Come in.”

When he opened the door, there were forms on the desk. With a sly grin, Captain Morhen placed a pen down on top of them. “Pity I do not gamble, Geralt,” He said, “I would have won.”

Geralt had to chuckle. “Yes, Sir. You would have.”

\-------------

Jaskier kept himself busy whilst Geralt was at work. The first day, he cleaned the house, playing _The Sex Pistols_ on Geralt’s fancy sound system at a volume that was just touching the line of annoying the neighbours. Then he sat and wrote music, fiddling with his guitar, fine-tuning lyrics. His muse was back, and though he intended to attempt to make a lovely roast for Geralt for dinner, time got away from him. It didn’t much matter anyway, because that first night, they only had appetite for each other.

The second day, he sucked up all his courage and took the bus to see Eskel. His best friend gave him a hard look, but had relented, letting him in. Jaskier told him everything – he laid the story bare, knowing it was safe – and by the end of it, Eskel had gone through an entire range of emotions. Eventually, he just hugged Jaskier.

“You should’ve come to stay with me, you muppet.” He chided, his voice thick with emotion.

“I know,” Jaskier squeezed him, “I just... I was a bit lost. Forgive me?”

And easy as that, he had his mate back.

He thought Lambert would be more difficult, so as he walked to the man’s apartment, he picked up a six-pack of beer as a peace offering. When he knocked on the door, Lambert answered, raised an eyebrow, and took the liquor. “Eskel texted.” He said, simply, “We’re good.”

“Lambert, I was a right arse.” Jaskier stuttered, “You’re not even going to... I don’t know, slap me?”

Lambert laughed. “Like an offended southern belle? Jask’, you punished yourself. Eskel didn’t tell me everything, but I know you’ve been through shit. If you’re good now, and if you show up at practice, then... no hard feelings.”

Jaskier beamed. “You know what? You’re not such a bell-end.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, now. Cheers for the beer.” Lambert saluted, and shut the door.

On the way home, Jaskier felt the fractures in his heart beginning to scab over, healing. Once at Geralt’s place, he threw himself into the kitchen, intent on making a gourmet feast for them to eat. He’d watched a YouTube video about roasting a chicken – how hard could it be?

When Geralt had arrived home to a very peculiar smell and a sheepish Jaskier that night, he’d only laughed at the musician for trying to microwave the chicken ‘in order to pre-cook it’ for a few minutes. Thankfully, Jaskier knew how to shut him up. They ordered in for a second night, and Geralt made him promise not to try to cook anymore.

The third day stretched before him with endless promise. He padded around the house like a trophy boyfriend, not upset about the status in the least. He changed the sheets on the bed and the towels in the bathroom. He did two loads of laundry. When the dishwasher was done, he unpacked it. By lunchtime, he was considering his beaten-up bowling bag, and the eviction notice that stuck out from it like a cotton-candy threat. Plucking it out, he also scooped up the mail from the bottom of the bag, placing that on the sideboard – he didn’t want to think about bills – and he pushed the luggage into one of the closets where Geralt stored his suitcases.

The gesture was simple, but meaningful. Jaskier wanted to stay. He traced the hooks that he’d already drilled into the wall for Geralt’s keys and identification, and gazed around the place. Pristine, expensive furniture, but lacking warmth. He saw Yennefer’s taste in a few of the art pieces and in the lounge suite, but not Geralt. The man had let himself become a ghost in his own house.

Jaskier walked past the study, and paused. Geralt had given him permission to go anywhere in the house – he said he had nothing to hide – but he asked Jaskier to avoid moving anything in the study. Not to open any folders, physical or on the computer. He was free to use the laptop to amuse himself, but Geralt’s work was not to be disturbed.

Jaskier was curious, of course, but he was not perverse. He knew what Geralt dealt with. He knew the victims deserved his respect. He’d been into the study twice – once to fetch a pen, and once to empty the trash. Now, he sat down in front of the sleek laptop, and booted it up.

Even Geralt’s desktop wallpaper was businesslike. Jaskier sighed and picked up his phone, transferring a file over. He changed the background to a selfie; him and Geralt in bed, Jaskier’s nose scrunched in a giggle as Geralt kissed his cheek. Much better.

Ignoring the files on the computer – they had labels like ‘Case 29987’ – he opened the browser, and began to make wishlists for the house. Nothing too extreme – cushions, a couple of mirrors, some storage. A throw or two. At first he kept it sensible, but then his mind wandered, and he added a new bed frame (it had potential for handcuffs, which he enjoyed), a sofa suite that would actually fit Geralt’s bulky frame, and a couple of rugs and lamps. Then he moved on to art.

He found a painting of a car that was the same vintage as Roach in tasteful colours that would compliment the study. He found a beautiful abstract of a woman with a guitar. He found an oil painting of the sea, textured and vibrant and perfectly matching the dream lounge. When he was done, he glanced over the total prices for everything and winced. Good thing they were just ideas, really. Perhaps they could chat about his vision, and work at it bit by bit. Make the place into a proper home. Fondly, he created a new folder called ‘Geralt and Jaskier’s House’, and saved the pictures, links and prices.

By the time he was shutting down the computer, wondering if he should have another go at dinner again or if he should get the takeout menus, he heard the tell-tale purr of Roach’s engine. Delighted, he shot to his feet, and bound to the door.

“Welcome home!” He launched himself into Geralt’s arms, who caught him. It was the third time he’d been able to greet his boyfriend in this way, and it seemed neither of them were bored of it yet. Geralt laughed, and squeezed Jaskier to his chest.

“Hello, handsome.” Geralt purred, and Jaskier kissed him. Before it had the potential to evolve into something heated, the older man pulled away, much to Jaskier’s whiny complaint. “I have news.”

“Ooh, do you?” Jaskier’s pale eyes were pools of enthusiasm, “Tell, tell. Did you get a bad guy today?”

“Not today,” Geralt said.

“Did you... solve the Ripper murders?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was fondly irritated, “Are you going to keep guessing, or would you like to know?”

Jaskier smiled sheepishly. “Tell me.”

“I took a promotion. As of next month, I’ll be a lieutenant.”

Jaskier bounced on the balls of his feet, and then flung his arms around Geralt again. “That’s so exciting! Congratulations, Geralt!” But then he pulled away, a little confused. “I thought... you’d refused that offer, though?”

“I did, a year ago,” Geralt said, “But my captain had a talk with me. He said some things that made sense. I thought about where I want to be, now, and I realised that whilst my job will always be important to me... so will you. And I want to be with you.” He stroked the side of Jaskier’s face. “I took it because it means less risk, less time at the precinct, and more time with you.”

Jaskier’s eyes swum with tears. “You’re sure? You’re not giving up detective because you think I’ll leave, right?”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m giving up detective because I know you’ll stay.”

With a sob, Jaskier pressed his lips against Geralt’s again. He tangled his fingers into the messy topknot of his hair and said with his kiss what he could not say with words: _I am here. I will stay_. Geralt made a delicious purr, and grazed Jaskier’s bottom lip with his teeth. When they parted, both men were grinning.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Jaskier said, and Geralt flushed.

“How shall we celebrate?” Geralt moved the subject from his accomplishments, “Out, or in?”

Jaskier thought for a moment, and then licked his tingling lips. “I don’t suppose you feel like filling a couple of boxes with clothes and bidding an old loft farewell?”

Geralt looked confused, before his eyes widened. “You’re saying yes?” He clarified, “You’ll move in here?”

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. “I do not trust you not to lose your badge, darling. You _need_ me.”

It was Geralt’s turn to tear up. He cleared his throat, and blinked fiercely. “You’re right,” He whispered, “I... I really do, Jaskier.”

\-------------

It was difficult for them to make their way up Jaskier’s stairs, the way they were kissing and groping one another, but they eventually managed it. Breathlessly giggling, Jaskier tore the final eviction notice from the door, turning his key in the lock. Geralt followed him over the threshold, kicking the door closed in his wake.

He gave Jaskier no freedom to move far from him; possessively he pulled the musician back into his arms, pressing nibbling kisses to the column of his throat just to hear the sweet whimpers he made. When he reached Jaskier’s collarbone, he marked it with a suckle, and pulled at the hem of his vintage re-sewn tee’, urging it over his lover’s head.

Geralt thought he’d never seen someone as beautiful as Jaskier. He thought it every time he saw the man; when he was in the bath, suds in his hair; when he was asleep, snuffling in a snore; like this, wild-eyed and kiss-swollen lips and flush cheeks. “Beautiful.” He had to say it out loud, raking his hands through the scruff of Jaskier’s chest, “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Jaskier blushed under the vivid hunger in Geralt’s eyes, fisting his tie in one hand and tugging him towards the bed. “I know you are, but what am I?” He sing-songed, smiling, slipping the knot free so he could undo the buttons of the larger man’s work shirt.

“Beautiful.” Geralt repeated, his voice a low growl, “The funniest, sweetest, most _beautiful_ man I’ve ever met.” At Jaskier’s insistence, he shed his shirt, and climbed onto the bed over him. He swooped down for another kiss, and they traded hot breaths, Geralt shuddering as Jaskier’s clever fingers skimmed over his pebbling nipples and down the washboard of his abdomen.

“And I’m supposed to be the poet.” Jaskier’s voice was thick with emotion and lust. He laved Geralt’s sharp jawline with his tongue, nosing to the spot behind his ear that always made the bigger man weak when Jaskier teased it. Groaning, Geralt thrust forward unconsciously, his hard dick straining against the cloth of his trousers, the friction making Jaskier sigh.

“I want you.” Geralt demanded, fingers at the fly of Jaskier’s jeans. His cock sprang free, and Geralt could not help but take a moment to adore it, slicking his lips down the length of it simply to draw the salt of Jaskier’s precome from him.

“Fuck, baby, you _have_ me.” Jaskier groaned, fumbling with Geralt’s belt – who the fuck invented belts, anyway – and unzipping his trousers. He hooked his thumbs into the boxer-briefs that were both sexy and the bane of his existence, and tugged. Obediently, Geralt sat back, pulling the garments free from his body.

“I know,” He clarified, his eyes hooded, his mouth reddened from kissing, “I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you tonight.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched. It wasn’t as if they’d never switched, but generally Geralt preferred control. This was a moment of surrender and intimacy. Wordlessly, he nodded, coaxing the other man forward with a gesture. Geralt lay down, and Jaskier straddled him. He picked up the lube at his bedside table, pouring some onto his hand, coating his fingers. He slicked Geralt’s cock first, making the man arch the small of his back, and then he trailed lower, between his cheeks. Geralt spread his legs for him.

Jaskier circled his ring of muscle with a slippery, calloused fingertip, bending to press kisses into the pronounced line of Geralt’s adonis belt. Slowly, he slipped one digit in, testing. He heard Geralt’s appreciative huff, and pushed harder, curving his finger until it brushed in a tease against the man’s prostate. Geralt’s dick flexed in response, and he opened his legs further, begging Jaskier with his eyes.

He looked so hot that Jaskier worried he’d spill then and there. But he took a calming breath, and added a second finger, and then a third, gently stretching. Geralt melted under his expert touch, his belly sticky with precome, and by the time Jaskier was confident he was ready, the bigger man was actually whining. Jaskier had never heard him make that sound before, and it nearly drove him mad with want.

Fumbling slightly, he rolled a condom onto his aching cock, and then slicked it generously with lubricant. He positioned himself at Geralt’s hole, bending down to brush his lips against the other man’s as he slowly entered him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned, “Christ, Geralt. You feel amazing.”

Geralt keened, fisting the sheets. “More, Jaskier. _Please_.”

Jaskier thrust forward harder, eagerness robbing his control, but Geralt only mewled again in pleasure. Encouraged, he sheathed himself completely, and only gave himself mere seconds to relish the exquisite heat and quivering clutch of Geralt’s muscles before he began to fuck him.

Geralt’s cock pulsed between them, brushing Jaskier’s stomach every time that he rutted forward. The both of them were panting, ever-vocal. Jaskier cursed and gripped Geralt’s hips, angling himself so the curve of his dick would hit deeper. The reaction was instantaneous; Geralt bit off a cry and yanked at the bedsheet, his other hand gripping the bed’s headboard.

Jaskier wanted to tell him how sexy he was, how good he looked taking his cock, but he couldn’t speak. He was lost in Geralt entirely, entranced by the sound and smell and feel of him. Single-minded, he picked up his pace, feeling the response of Geralt’s body around him. They stood together on a precipice, trembling, gasping.

Geralt fell first. Without needing more than the brush of Jaskier’s belly, he came hard between them, coating his own chest and Jaskier’s slick and hot. The sight robbed Jaskier of the last of his own control, and he pulsed thickly inside of Geralt, straining to push deeper, joining his lover in a throaty cry that was equally lustful and feral. As the last of Geralt’s spend twitched from his dick, Jaskier slowed his rocking, and held himself up on shaky arms.

“Fuck.” He panted, “ _Fuck_ , Geralt.”

Geralt nodded, looking dazed. “Yeah.”

With reluctance, Jaskier pulled out, and flopped onto the bed beside Geralt. He lay there, fingers joined with his lover’s, and just basked. Eventually, he pulled the condom off and knotted it. Then he used the top sheet to clean Geralt’s chest, and his own.

“Not a fan of these sheets, then?” Geralt mused.

“Would you believe I bought them to impress you?”

“Really?” Geralt scrunched his nose. “Seafoam green?”

“It’s actually more of a jade – oh, you are such a _prick_.” Jaskier picked up a pillow and bopped him. The both of them giggled.

“You never need to work to impress me, Jaskier.” Geralt said, seriously. “You continually impress me without trying.”

Jaskier smiled, and kissed each of Geralt’s fingers. “Then I hereby declare I shall let myself go. No more exercise, or trimming my pubes, or—”

“I’d love you no matter what shape or... density of hair you sport.”

Jaskier softened. “I love you, too.”

In silence, they lay in the place that hosted so many mixed memories. They’d given it a fitting goodbye, Jaskier thought. In some way, he’d miss the loft, but he was ready to leave it behind him.

“Come on,” Geralt groaned, getting up, “This won’t take long, and I’m starving. What do you want to pick up after this?”

“Good question.” Jaskier rose too, and padded over to the pile of mail on the floor. He sifted through it, looking for menus. And then he froze up.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice went all stern with worry, as he strode over, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a letter from Domino.” Jaskier whispered.

“The pizza place? Do you not like them?” Geralt tried to follow. Jaskier’s hands were trembling. “Jask’, talk to me, you’re freaking me out.”

“Domino Recording Company.” Jaskier said, and Geralt made a small noise. With care, Jaskier opened the envelope, withdrew a piece of paper, and began to read. Geralt waited as patiently as possible.

When Jaskier screamed, he nearly threw a punch out of instinctive reaction.

“Jaskier--!”

“Geralt, they want—they heard our fucking demo, they listened to us and they want to talk!” Jaskier began to pace, still naked, still staring at the paper. “I sent it ages ago, on a whim and—fuck! They _love_ it! They say that, right here!”

Geralt eased the paper from him, and scanned it. “They want you to contact them to organise a meeting in New York.” He lifted his eyes. “Jaskier, babe... holy shit. This is amazing.”

Jaskier was crying, hands threaded in his hair. “Ohhh, oh I’ve died, am I dead? Too many good things—this is _too much_ , this is... oh my _God_.”

He felt strong arms around him as Geralt hugged him. “You’ve worked hard for this, Jask’. _My Heart, Your Blood_ has been your project for years. And now, maybe, you’re gonna see the rewards of that work.”

Jaskier sniffled. “Oh my God.” He stuttered. Geralt rocked him.

“You’d best be calling Eskel and Lambert, hmm? Are they paying for your flights?”

“I don’t—I have no idea. I need to call the number tomorrow.” Jaskier had to sit, dizzy with everything.

“If they won’t, I will.” Geralt offered, sitting too, “You deserve this.”

A sob hitched in Jaskier’s throat. “You know this doesn’t... change us, right? Even if I gotta fly and record in New York, I’m still coming back to you. I mean, fuck, if they even want to sign us. _Fuck!_ ”

Geralt laughed, and kissed Jaskier’s forehead. “I have you, Jask’. I know I do. Who knows? Maybe you’ll make it big and I’ll get to retire and be your groupie.”

“I thought you were my groupie already.” Jaskier mumbled into his chest.

“True,” Geralt said, “I guess I’ll go on tour to fight the wannabe groupies away from you, then.”

Jaskier laughed. He laughed with abandon, like the sound had been captive in his chest and had finally earned freedom on the edge of his breath. Geralt smiled with him, and marvelled at the wonderful heart he now cradled gently in his cupped palms, never to wound again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed this AU. Thanks for reading it, and for all your comments! I rarely write a story where everyone gets a happily ever after, so don't get used to it. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, you can follow me on Tumblr @inber. Thanks for reading!


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